


where you'll find me

by pariahpirate



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Corporal Punishment, Dadhog Rides Again, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Nonbinary Junkrat, Not there yet but thats the end goal, Unreliable Narrator, Vishkar Corporation, alternative universe, maximum indulgence of my worldbuilding kink, they are their own warning for:, ymmv
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pariahpirate/pseuds/pariahpirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's twenty-three, and the universe has decided that this is the perfect age for him to become the father of a dumpster rat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Somewhere Over The Rainbow

**Author's Note:**

> I will not apologize there needs to be more Dadhog so help me I will spearhead the campaign

Mako Rutledge never died - not his heart, not his dreams, not his ideals, and certainly not his memory. Those were the worst bits, haunting his nights until the skies lightened with the harsh sun and the dusty skies. The man he used to be, the man he chose to kill and bury as he'd buried so many comrades. If this was humanity - all the pain and grief and guilt - then he wanted no part of it. Roadhog was born from that desire to abandon Mako. To kill Mako. It was difficult in the beginning; Mako had a healer's soul, resilient and kind to the core. It took a lot of blood to stain it dark and empty, but as with anything in the world, the more he killed, the easier it got.

But Roadhog was barely two years old. Mako remained. Traces of him could still be found. Mako hadn't yet been stamped out by Roadhog's active cruelty, only buried under the mountain of violent deeds, ready to undo years of bloody work with one single unconscious decision.

It was going to storm. The Geiger counter he'd jury-rigged was starting to pick up and the wind was whipping up dust. He parks his bike in the half-collapsed garage of some petrol station. The place is mostly dilapidated, but it has more of a roof than his motorcycle, and that automatically makes it the best choice. He'll wait out the radiation storm here.

He holes up in the shop, scavenging what ever he finds, whatever looks useful for either his use or to sell. Rather than find food or useful scrap, he finds a baby. It'd been tossed, callously, into the half-wrecked dumpster out back and abandoned.

The Mako in him surges forth, reclaims ownership of his body and his murdering hands. Those massive hands that have popped skulls and crushed throats reach down and scoop up the tiny child. He feels so horribly off-balance. The tiny thing can fit in the palm of one massive hand, and he could easily squish it by merely curling his hand into a fist. It's weak and defenseless but it has Roadhog terrified. It's frail and pure and good, everything Roadhog is not and everything that Mako does not deserve for the things he has done. He shouldn't be holding this child. He has no right to. The baby was abandoned and left to die in this hellscape because it's parents couldn't afford to keep it. Because raising a child in the outback is near impossible when death lurks so close to their backs. Because Australia is no longer a place for for children and it's Mako's fault. Because Roadhog is an empty, cold murderer, a real monster, and his hands should never be near something as innocent as a baby.

The little thing starts to squirm in its loose wrap of blanket scraps. Instinct takes hold, fear, and he pulls his arms together, tight to his chest to cradle the squirmy bugger. The last thing he wants to do is drop it - kill it accidentally - and that's the strangest thought that Roadhog's ever had. Him - worried and hesitant about killing? He has no obligation to this infant. He's killed slews of people without the weight on his conscience, and yet ... No. No he won't dwell on it any longer. He can't.

The thing squirms more, kicking up a fuss and wailing now. Before it really gets going, though, full-body coughs rattle its tiny frame. It sucks all the energy out. He can see it, see the drain on the baby as its wiggling weakens and it's limbs fall feebly. It still doesn't quit crying though, the stubborn shit. The Mako left in him winces and pulls the child tighter. The coughs and choked sobs make for a terrible sound that the volume of the worsening storm outside can't mask. Something inside him, something fragile, something untouched by Roadhog's callous and cruelty, twists and pulls.

This child won't live to see the morning.

There's something heartbreaking about that realization. Mako wants to deny it, want to hold that child closer as if that will be the cure-all. Roadhog knew better, expected this, even. Denial wouldn't fix anything. He'd hold the thing until the time came, make the passing kind, and come morning he'd dig it's grave. That is more than enough, he figures, for a monster like him.

It is still screaming despite the death-rattle of its tiny lungs. He feels a wetness under his mask, and oh. He hadn't thought himself capable of tears, not anymore. Not since the Omnium explosion massacred half his face. He'd thought his tears dried up with the rest of Australia's water - boiled up and gone, good for only poison to claim the barren dust. The little joey's trying so hard, kicking up a royal fuss, drawing him out of his thoughts and into action. Mako surges forth. Arms begin to rock - that's what you're supposed to do with babies, right? - and with one hand, he pushes up his mask just far enough to reveal his mouth.

He hums. Sings a bit - the song his whaea would always sing to him when he was small and scared. The baby falls quiet, sobs giving way to hiccups giving way to gentle, ragged breathing. It's going to die, he thinks, before the night is out and before the radiation storm ends. Best to make the tiny thing comfortable before it passes.

But it doesn't. The tiny thing, sick and starving, does not die. Screams it's head off, yeah. Cries itself into exhaustion and body-wracking coughing fits that strike Mako harder than any blow he's ever endured. Before he's really realized it, it's morning. The radiation storm has passed, the blistering sun once more taking hold of the taupe skies, and the infant he had found has lived to see it. The sight of the sun must have been completely new, he thinks as he adjusts his mask back over his face with one hand. The baby's staring up at it and the sky with such wide glassy eyes, stuttering breathing and tiny odd noises.

He sets the rugrat down as he readies his bike. It doesn't seem to notice until he's back, picking the thing up like something beyond delicate. It coos, giving him a big gummy smile and reaching with tiny hands and tiny fingers. There's something in his throat that catches, but Roadhog is practiced in quelling emotions, practiced in burying them. Burying everything.

He'll take the tiny thing to Junkertown. If it lives long enough to survive the trip, then he'll dump it on the first tosser that looks parent-capable. Then he'll wash his hands of the whole affair and continue about his existence. Easy.

He scoops up the baby and cradles it in the crook of his elbow, arm pressed tight to his chest. He covers the baby absurdly well from the dust his bike kicks up. The sheer size of his arm is enough to completely hide it from most viewpoints. And so Roadhog greets the open Aussie road with a purpose and a mission.

Easy, he'd thought. What a mistake. The little brat had no intention of making anything easy.

The road starts smooth in the sense that the tyke was well-pacified and willing to sleep for a grand total of thirty minutes before it decides it's having no more of that quiet shit. It gets fussy, kicking and squirming against his hold and screaming loud enough to rival the purr of his bike's engine. Every so often the screaming is replaced by horrible rattling coughs that would wrack the entirety of the baby's body and reverberate through his own flesh and his own bones. It's loud, even over the roar of the engine and it's a nasty reminder of how sick the poor grub is. Each shake and weak gasp for air feels like a bullet to the chest.

Roadhog is forced to pull over sooner than he anticipated by the baby's unrest. He parks under the shade of a collapsed satellite dish, kicks the stand, and shifts the brat to his other arm. The cruel little thing screams and cries the whole time, as he has, solidly, for the last hour. At this rate it'll take three days to reach Junkertown, and though this one's a fighter, he doesn't have much to feed it. It'll die of starvation, won't it?

He tries to feed the sickly thing some mashed up crackers and mostly-decent water. The water seems to take but most of the crackers end up as vomit down that tiny chin. It all serves to make Roadhog groan in disgust at the wastefulness. The Mako left in him chides his callousness.

He finds himself pulling up his mask, ever so slightly, to sing for the baby again. It'd worked like a damn charm the last time - slept for hours, like the dead, it did, even despite the loud engine of his bike. Maybe then he could get back on the road. Get a bit closer to Junkertown. So he sings. He picks a different song this time, another one of his whaea's favorites. Mako's heart is raw, still bleeding underneath the callous Roadhog had developed.

The second the first note leaves his lips the baby shuts his gob and stares with wide eyes. All the kicking and flailing and crying, all of it over and done in an instant. Magic. It has to be. There's no other explanation, because he doesn't have a good voice and can't carry a tune like he can carry a fight.

The song comes to an end, as all songs eventually do, and the baby stares at him with those too-big eyes. It sticks it's tiny fist into its gummy mouth and there's a lot of drool. It gets the sense that he's not gonna keep singing and the threat of tears starts up again. It's little face is pinched up and the fist in its mouth is removed and used to bat at him. Roadhog has been covered in various types of fluids, from blood to petrol, but none have been as disgusting as baby drool. He starts up another song, clumsily, just to make it stop. He stumbles over the words he half-remembers and glares at the baby from behind the lenses of his mask. The baby's smile returns, full-force and drooly.

It's a smug smile. Roadhog knows it.

Three more songs later and finally, finally, the damn brat falls to sleep. Could've mistaken it for dead if it didn't wheeze like death with each breath. Slept like the dead too. Tiny thing was out for hours, far past the sunset and well into the night. He made fantastic time, the little 'roo didn't so much as whimper even with the noisy bike. Roadhog surveys the road ahead. Might even make it to Junkertown by sundown tomorrow if luck was with him and he kept this pace.

He called it a night and pulled over at some ancient relic of a radio station. The tiny building itself was in solid condition, though the tower had long been disassembled and sold for scrap. He kicked the stand, gathered the baby up into a vaguely more defensible position, and kicked down the door, scrap gun at the ready.

There's nothing there but skeletons and dust.

Roadhog breathed in an easy sigh of relief and shifts the little thing's weight to a more comfortable position. He feels something warm and wet and his first reaction is purely Mako's. It's fear. Warm. Wet. Blood?

No. No red. No blood.

Just piss.

Of fucking course it's piss. Roadhog grumbles and scowls as he holds the filthy brat at an arm's distance. The little shit's piss drips down his arm and torso. Fuck. His leathers will smell like that for weeks! His gaze snaps to the kid and he growls. It's smiling widely. Little bastard's proud, smiling ear to ear and giggling.

"Should've left you in that dumpster." Roadhog growls. The baby gurgles in response, as if to teasingly say, _but'cha didn't!_

Hog exhales a low, tired breath. The blanket needs to go. It's wet with piss and stained with who-knows-what-else. He kicks away some floor debris to make a safe spot on the floor, and he sets the little bugger down. Eyes dart around for replacements and he finds a musty old plaid shirt, only a little moth-eaten. Aces.

Roadhog tries his hand at being gentle and the tiny thing doesn't seem to mind the clumsiness in his attempts as he lifts the too-skinny, too-tiny frame from the soiled blanket. He flinches. He didn't expect tiny sores on what should be a pudgy baby stomach and chubby baby legs. Poor boy.

"Happy little vegemite, despite everything, ain't you?" He mutters, taking out his canteen. He's not much good at fixing things, only breaking, but he knows a few things about medicine and treating wounds. Gotta clean it. It's going to sting. Going to burn.

Roadhog takes off his mask. He unscrews the cap. He watches the tiny, tiny baby wiggle on the dusty floor, eyes bouncing around the dreary room. He hums the opening bars of his whaea's favorite song, and those too-bright eyes are on him in less than a second. The tiny damn grub smiles that gummy smile but this time it's innocent.

" ...'m sorry." He says and he begins to clean the boy's wounds.

The one-room building shakes with the anguished screams of a child. All of him, both Mako and Roadhog, want it to stop. Mako wants to make it all better. Wants to wish the suffering away. Roadhog wants to get revenge. Wants to curse the sun and sky for the poison in the water because this shouldn't hurt as much as it does. But he is only one man, young and broken. He can't do either of these things. All he can do is sing and try.

The rugrat thrashes and screams until he coughs and he coughs and coughs and coughs. He's tuckered himself out soon enough, chest rising and falling weakly with each labored breath. He whimpers at the burning touch of the water, lacking the strength to do anything else. Roadhog hates this.

Roadhog finishes cleaning the angry red sores, and he starts tearing up one of the long sleeves of the plaid shirt he found into thin strips. He finishes the song and starts another. His hands, murdering hands, take up the sickly baby and begin wrapping up the wounds. When that's done, he takes the rest of the shirt, swaddles the boy and cradles him close. The little bugger whimpers. Mako hates this.

The piss has long since dried on his skin. He doesn't notice. Doesn't care anymore.

There's not much water left in the canteen now, and he knows where it has to go. He rocks the baby, slowly, brining the last of his water to the tiny thing's lips. It sips weakly, but steadily, and soon the water is gone. Gone to the little 'roo's stomach where it'll hopefully stay.

He's still singing. He doesn't think he ever stopped. The same old song, same lovely old song, echoing throughout the room and his soul. The little dumpster baby, sick and exhausted, blinks up at him with bleary eyes. Once more, Mako rises to the surface, takes control of his limbs and heart. With one hand, a hand that's gutted men and women alike, he brushes the unruly thatch of blonde cowlicks and curls. It's soft. He moves, tries to withdraw his hand but he's too slow. Little shit's grabbed onto his index finger with a weak, sleepy grip. It feels as if all the air has left his lungs. He cuddles Roadhog's finger, holding tightly to it now with his own tiny fingers. It's pulled closer, and it's nuzzled and lightly nibbled on. Roadhog doesn't have the strength to pull back, to reclaim his hand.

He stays like that. Falls asleep like that. Wakes up like that, with that tiny boy holding his finger like a blankie. Roadhog withdraws his hand, neither slowly nor roughly, and the baby stirs, but he does not wake. With his free hand he checks for baby piss and finds none. He fixes his mask and heads out into the sun.

The sky is a deep taupe. It's always a shade of taupe. It's not the best shade for a long ride, but there will be less Scav caravans on a darker day like this. The threat of radiation storms are enough to keep the still-sensible Junkers close to lead-lined shelters. Roadhog mounts his bike, shifts the sleeping child, and starts the engine. He rides again with purpose, if only enough for one more day.

They ride for three, maybe four hours before a storm hits, and it's not a radiation storm as Roadhog had anticipated, but a dust storm. He'd had enough time to cover up the baby fully before the vicious winds hit, a small miracle, but there was no place to escape the storm and the battering winds. He might have known these roads better than his own soul, but he wasn't all too enthusiastic about powering through the vicious storm. However, he had no choice.

The dust will be hell on his flesh, whipping him raw grain by grain, but I'll be worse on his beloved bike. He has no choice. He has to keep going. He knows this last stretch of dusty, cracked highway. Knows it intimately. There are no places to stop. There are no places to hide. He must persist.

And so he does.

He can't hear anything over the wind, not his engine and not the baby. He tries his best to shield the little thing and hopes its enough. The storm only grows worse as he drives further into it. It feels endless. Thank fuck he knows these roads.

As with all things, the storm eventually comes to an end. Roadhog knows by the sound of his bike that there's been a grand load of damage. He growls. He feels the little dumpster 'roo squirm in his hold and Roadhog can spare enough time to glare at the wiggly shit. Damn thing grins up at him, making grabby hands and giggling.

"Yeah, yeah, have your laugh. Lil' shit." He says, the quiet words swallowed by the roar of his bike and the roar of the wind. The baby smiles wider, bearing all of its gums, as if to say, _I will!_

The sun hangs low in the sky and the familiar mess of metal appeared on the horizon. Born from the metal skeleton of a massive Omnic monster - a Vangard unit, if Roadhog remembered correctly - Junkertown stands alone among the wastes as a bastion for all the mongrels and monsters the Omnic war had made of Aussies. It's a rough place, and there'd be only one real place for a child in those cutthroat maze streets, and it's with the Guild of Rats - so the Guild of Rats is where he'll go.

He parks his bike at one of the last working servos in the bush, and leaves it under the watch of a few Junkers, older than him but easily disposed of, protected by the threat of bloody dismemberment.

Roadhog moves through the busy streets and squeezes through the narrow alleyways. Turn, turn, turn, left, left, right, left, right again - Fucking paranoid twitchy fucks - finding the Den is a royal pain. He's only been there a handful of times, bringing others, and it never ceases to annoy how buried in the Junk maze the damn hole in the ground is.

The sun's gone and the tiny thing's being a writhing pain, kicking and screaming and coughing. The damn brat seems to have caught on to the fact that Roadhog hates his drooling, because the little shit's all but weaponized it.

"You gonna be like that and I'll be glad to be rid of you, brat." He growls as he hits his fifth dead-end. The baby blinks up with his too-big, too-bright eyes. His little lip wobbles. _You don't mean that, do you?_ he seems to say.

Roadhog grunts. It was not the answer the baby was looking for because it quiets down, going slack in his arms, and quiet tears start. The whimpering follows and then the trembling - but it's quiet. It's so quiet. It's unnerving, especially when Roadhog is used to the rugrat being the loudest set of lungs he's encountered yet, at all times.

Roadhog wants it to stop. Mako wants to make it all better. There's nothing right about this quiet crying. When the coughing fits come, they seem even worse - rattling full-body shakes and deep throaty, dry coughs that leave the tiny 'roo gasping for breath. He doesn't know what to do.

The night air's got a chill that bites worse than most dingos, but Roadhog can't feel it. He brings his free hand up, covering up the baby as much as he can, bathing it in his body warmth. The little thing reaches up and takes his finger. Roadhog flinches. Those tiny fingers are cold as death and they hold on so tightly.

Roadhog's still got his mask on; the tune is distorted and tinny, but the baby hears him. Hears the song. Wide eyes, red, teary, and alight, watch. The sniffles slow and come to an end by the second verse, and by the third, he's well on his way to dreamland.

Roadhog keeps moving.

The night air is practically ice by the time he reaches the damn place. He can barely squeeze into the Rat's Den, and when he does, he’s met with dozens of open stares, vaguely glowing eyes piercing through the grimy gloom. He knows he’s not particularly welcomed. His ways are not Rat ways. His views are not Rat views. Still - its the Rats who mind the orphans. It’s the Rats who care for the sick and dying. The smart types, the fixer types, the last of Australia's bleeding, giving hearts - all of them find their place here. It's a good place for a baby. He'll be safest here.

“Take him.” He grunts, and offers up the child. Immediately two Rats scurry forth - a motherly-looking older woman wearing grease across her eyes like a mask, and a teenaged boy with a vicious prosthetic arm. They take the little 'roo, the woman holds him so gently and the boy pulls out an actual blanket for him. They look back up at Roadhog, lamplike eyes wary, but not particularly malevolent.

The little thing whimpers and Roadhog feels something pull tight at his heart. He apparently didn't like being handed off. The woman tries to shush the tiny boy and the boy tries to distract him, but Roadhog knows the finicky shit by now. He's having having none of their inadequate attempts. The rugrat begins to scream and cry and cough that horrible rattling cough. Several Rats begin scurriying and Roadhog hears them chatter about food and medicine supplies. Good, he thinks, stubborn brat shouldn't die now.

The teenaged Rat is close to panicking, and Roadhog can see the motherly Rat frowning in every line of her worn face. He grunts, shakes his head. He should leave them with some guidance.

"No." He says, essentially snatching the finicky brat out of the older Rat's arms, unable to stand another second of his shrieking - Roadhog can delude himself all he wants, Mako knows it's because he cares - "Like this."

He starts humming, low and stable, even through the mask he can be heard. It doesn’t take long until the tiny thing calms down. The cries fade to hiccups and weak coughs, until finally the worrisome wheezing that Roadhog has come to know as a sign that he sleeps. He hands the child back over to the older Rat, with practiced gentleness. Her shock is plain, it shows in her too-bright eyes. Undoubtably she didn't think a creature his size, of his bloody reputation, could have the capacity for gentleness. Roadhog smirks behind his mask.

“Won’t wake up again.” Roadhog rumbles, “Not for a few hours.” He takes the silence of his audience as a sign to depart. He weaves his way through the maze of alleys and streets, and he's by his bike come morning's first tentative light. He doesn't feel tired. Knows he wouldn't find sleep even if he tried. Instead he heads back to the servo to fix up his bike. He trades in some paltry scraps for the parts he needs, and gets started. The older Junkers see him return and they scatter, leaving him alone with his bike and his thoughts.

That tiny, sickly little thing is a testiment to Mako’s existance, living proof that Roadhog’s active cruelty hasn’t stamped out the kind-hearted son of a solar farmer and an immigrant. Mako had woken up, risen up. Roadhog would never be rid of his past, never lose that last shred of humanity. Not as long as that little anklebiter lived.

Gods alive and dead, he hopes that kid lives.


	2. What a Wonderful World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crisis made animals out of all of them.

Roadhog dreams he is Mako. They've been more frequent than they used to be. Once in a blue moon became once a week became every other night - all because of the child he found in the dumpster. It's his fault, the little blighter. He woke Mako up before Roadhog could smother him, before Roadhog could kill him fully. Now Mako won't leave. Nothing Roadhog does can push him back down to the far corners of his mind and soul. No amount of fresh blood on his hands or chunks of flesh on his hook or bone marrow and brain matter on his boots will silence Mako now. 

 

In this dream he is eighteen again, before everything turns to shit. Before the world begins to collapse around him. Before he joins the angry people the government had left behind and before they end their world. 

 

He's sitting, cross-legged on the floor as his mother sits across from him, facing him, knee to knee. She's humming a song as her strong fingers trace over his jaw and cheeks in swirls and strong lines. Mako inherited those fingers, inherited nearly everything from his mother. Her fingers are deeply calloused from years of hard work. Mako's are not. Not yet. 

 

The scent of food wafts from the kitchen. The dream is too vague. He cannot place what food is cooking. The only thing he can smell is ink. 

 

Ink. 

 

Then there's pain. 

 

He wakes up, breathing heavily. He unconsciously raises his hand to his face. His fingers meet rubber and it's a relief. He is not Mako right now. He can't be Mako. His mask is on, it's in place. He's Roadhog. He's Roadhog right now. 

 

He surveys the camp. He observes two of the older members hold a hushed conversation before one of them takes watch, relieving the other.  The night so far has been peaceful, the whole caravan tucks into their bags, sleeping well and peacefully. 

 

He needs violence. He needs to clear his head. It's a crying shame that there hasn't been a lick of action on the road thus far. 

 

He settles for polishing his hook instead. Holding the wicked instrument is almost as good as a fight. Almost as good was warm blood on the sand and the thrum of adrenaline in his limbs. The hook has been with him since he joined up with the ALF. It's Roadhog's signature. It's nearly a legend now. Tales of it and the brutality it brings are whispered in the smoke-hazy bars of Junkertown, Junker to Junker. He knows. He's heard them, heard them talk in hushed voices, fear and respect intertwined. It's a source of pride.

 

Two more days of riding. Then he'll be in Junkertown again, eight bags of scrap richer, though his mind doesn't particularly fixate on the spoils of this Scav job like it usually did. Like it once did. His mind instead wanders to the little dumpster joey. It's been a few months now (five days shy of being three months since he handed the brat off to the Guild of Rats) but it's not like he's been counting (he has been counting). Mako is awake because that little bastard, and all Mako does is float to the surface and all the worst times and turns all of Roadhog's thoughts into mushy worries about the baby. It's ridiculous. It's pointless. It's beyond stupid. Why does he care about a child he only knew for a short number of days? Why should he care? He's Roadhog now, cruel, cold, and merciless. 

 

He doesn't care. 

 

(This is a lie. The first of several self-delusions.)

 

The next two days are dull, just as the slew of days before them. No bloodshed, no warring. Not even a single inner-crew spat for him to brutally mediate. He rides his chopper, bringing up the rear of the caravan. The younger scavangers climb the main rig like monkeys, hanging from the ropes like acrobats. They're ridiculous, but the caravan's leaders, a trio of Dogs who might be siblings, pay them no mind. The kids are good at their jobs, they get serious when it's required. Their haul was good; they have every right to celebrate, to hoot and holler and swing from the rigs on ropes, acting like complete fools. 

 

There's no anger in his body. None at all. He didn't satisfy Roadhog's brutal needs, but he doesn't feel the itch. That in itself is alarming, but he cannot bring himself to be alarmed. This is also alarming. Something has changed within him, something fundamental. It's more than just Mako's reemergence. It's greater than that. 

 

He bids a farewell nod to the trio of leaders the second the reached Junkertown's main gate, and they saluted him in turn. He rides his bike through the main street, navigating the merchant stalls and flowing crowds, to the lone servo and parked. He takes a step back, hoists up his coveralls, and turns around. 

 

There's a girl there, standing behind him. He pauses. 

 

She's a young thing, twitchy and mousy in all senses of the word, soot on her cheeks and eyes like a mockery of makeup. Her clothing is relatively nice for a Junker child, a only mildly ragged sundress that hasn't completely lost its sunshine-yellow color. The bandages around her legs look somewhat fresh. Not a particularly active scavanger, then. Her nervous fingers keep wringing the strap of her messenger bag. It's distracting. 

 

"Y-y-your b-baby," she stutters, rocking on the heels of her bare feet, "He m-m-misses you!"

 

Roadhog snorts. She's a Rat. He should have guessed. He sees it now, in her too-big, too-bright eyes. She's a Rat and Rats apparently can't keep things quiet. The real rats, down in the gutters and the alleys, they never ceased their chattering. Figures that those that took their name would too. Maybe that's why their lot was held at the lower tier of the Junker hierarchy - people nowadays liked their business to stay their business. The Outback's become a place of loners and fighters and the Rats are the last of the social, the last of the learned. They're the ones who don't belong now. 

 

"Don't have a baby." He rumbles, turning to face the tiny girl properly. The young Rat flinches when he meet her gaze. Smart little thing. She must know of his reputation, his violence and his bloodthirst. For a moment she looked just about ready to bolt. She apparently thought better about it, found that last shred of courage and met the dead stare of black lenses with puffed up cheeks and furrowed brows. Roadhog can respect that. 

 

"Y-yeah, y-you do." She says, back squared and fists at her side. She looks like she's ready to take on the mountain that is the One Man Apocalypse. Roadhog can respect that. 

 

"Name." He means to ask but it sounds more like a demand. The girl looks shocked, a light flush blooming on her soot-stained cheeks. Her grip on her messenger bag strap has turned her knuckles pale. 

 

"D-don't g-g-got o-one. N-not yet." She stumbles over the words and Roadhog can't tell if it's from fear or just one of those natural things that, had their world never ended, she would've been teased for. She looks about fourteen, so she probably had been teased for it, back when their world was alive. Mako takes over, takes one of those great big hands, hands that learned to kill with gusto, and pats the young Rat on the head. She stands stock still, expecting pain. Expecting violence. Fair enough - but that's not what she gets. The head pat isn't too gentle, but it isn't too rough either. It's Roadhog and Mako reconciling. 

 

"When you do." He says and it again sounds like an order, but the girl, now with awkwardly tousled hair, stares up at him with too-wide, too-bright eyes. She nods, mutely. 

 

He takes his leave. She'd told him all he needed to know, and for that he was thankful. The little dumpster brat is alive. That's all he - Roadhog and Mako both as one - needs. The Rats, naturally, believe differently. He should have expected this, picked up on the significance of the first Rat's words. 'Your baby' She said. The damn thing most certainly was not  _his baby_. Damn Rats

 

He takes his chain and hook, uses them to secure his beloved motorcycle. He issued a few threats to the old Junkers who mind the servo. They know the song and dance, swearing on their pitifully weak lives that they'll watch it well. He's off to sell his scrap, have a pint, and maybe, just maybe, find a bar fight that will settle the violent cravings that Roadhog should be feeling by now. 

 

The sun is down and he's gotten rid of most of his scrap for a good price. A lot of haggling. A lot of talking. He's more than earned his drink. Perhaps he'll even binge a bit. The best bar in Junkertown is located in the hollowed out, stripped head of the Vanguard unit. It's always full of the angriest cunts the Outback has to offer and the best piss available. It's more costly than the average hole in the ground, but right now? Right now, this bar holds exactly what he needs. He heads up the long series of creaky wooden stairs, rope bridges, and scaffolding, all the way up to the massive head. Light filters out of the omnic's eye slits, now modified to be doors to a drunk Junker's paradise. 

 

He shuffles his way to the bar, minding the filled tables and the grouchy poker players. With a wave and a nod, he has the bartender's attention and a fresh mug of outback moonshine. He lifts his mask up only enough to take a sip. It's strong. Burns the whole way down. Kindles a fire in his belly that spreads quickly through his limbs. 

 

He nurses his drink for a spell, and by the time he's on his second mug, alcohol running through him like a fog, somebody comes to sit by him at the bar. It's an oddity, considering most avoid the fuck out of his great hulking form. Being built like a shit brick house has advantages. Most people tended to keep their distance, correctly assuming him to be as mean as he was big. 

 

This grizzled old cunt does not seem to give a fuck. 

 

He shifts in his seat, gives the old man a critical once over. Mako remembers him from the ALF, and isn't that the greatest surprise of the night? The bastard seated next to him is the best shot he's ever seen. The greyed old bloke taps on the metal countertop and orders himself a round. The old sniper glances up at him once before shaking his head. 

 

"I remember you. A right young bloke. You had a future before it all blew up." He says, twitchy fingers drumming on the metal bar counter now. He shakes his head, sadly, "Shame."

 

There's a nice silence then. Roadhog waits for the old bloke to break it. He nurses his drink, anticipation making his skin itch. 

 

"Didn't lead your division, did I?" The bloke asks. There's something odd about his voice, something he can't quite place but understands. It might have been grief. 

 

"No." Mako answers, his voice low and soft, "Served under Reina."

 

The man whistles. The sound is long and sharp. It's followed by a dark chuckle that, had Roadhog been a weaker man, he would have felt fear. "Mate, 'm sorry. Sheila had more than a few 'roos loose in the top paddock. Still though - looks like you got out alright."

 

Roadhog only grunts in response as he finishes off his second mug. He doesn't much want to continue this conversation. That's Mako's life, specifically the end of it. It ought to sleep with him. Mako oughta sleep. Roadhog knows neither will. 

 

The silence is broken again and it's irritating. 

 

"Piece wants you to see your kid." The old man drawls, low and calm, as he receives his beer from the bartender. He doesn't look at Roadhog for a reaction. He just stares dead ahead at the grimy metal wall coated in posters of all types. Roadhog's trigger finger twitches, but he's not holding his scrap gun. The old man's a Rat. Fucking Rats.

 

He wants to deck the cunt. He doesn't have no fucking kid. 

 

The Rat doesn't look at Roadhog, doesn't notice him clench his fists or hear him growl beyond the mask. No, the old bastard just continues, slow and steady like he's got all the time in the world. 

 

"Keep tellin' Piece. Shit's pointless." He takes a deep swig, "That tyke didn't come from your cock. Didn't come from no cunt neither. Came straight from Hell that one did."

 

He surprises himself - he laughs at that. He forgets how loud it is when his mask doesn't muffle it. It's been years since he heard it, unaltered by the leather and filters. He'd nearly forgotten what it sounds like. The old Rat smiles, lets out another dark chuckle. 

 

"Won't do nothing but scream and eat. Healed up alright - if you thought the little fuck had lungs before!" There's a deep sigh, "Nobody in the Den's slept proper since."

 

There's another long silence. The old Rat seems to understand that he's not too fond of talking. Now if only he'd understand that the dumpster shit is not his kid. 

 

"Right... Message delivered." The old bloke mutters, downs his drink, leaves the money on the counter, "Best of luck, mate." 

 

The man slips out of the bar, as quiet as he arrived and once again Roadhog is left with thoughts he'd rather not entertain. So he pushes them away with more alcohol and the prospects of a new job, a new caravan to guard for a new score, as proposed by the Bird in the corner booth. 

 

The job ought to be simple enough. He's to play guard again for a caravan - though this one is much smaller than the last. His last trip had been to the irradiated ruins of Perth. This trip's site is some nameless heap two weeks north of Junkertown. Roadhog already knows it's not going to be a profitable venture, but he didn't sign on for profit. Not this time. No, he's in for the promise of violence, because one week north of Junkertown is a raider camp of Dogs. 

 

He meets the rest of the crew in two days time. Most of them are Birds, like the caravan's leader, but there's others. A mute woman by the name of Junkviper who loves her knives like he loves his hook. A barrel-chested man introduced as Bluedog who knows his way around every weapon under the burning sun. A one-eyed teenager with a freshly bestowed name, Dagrat, who could manage rigging as if he'd done it all his life. 

 

"Holy dooley! You're that one bloke, fuck mate, yeah you gotta be! You're the bloke what gave us that baby!"

 

Fucking Rats. Fucking Den was a nest of gossip. 

 

Dagrat scampers up to him, more curious than anything else. Roadhog tries to reign in his already overflowing annoyance. Twice is a coincidence, thrice is a pattern. He doesn't have the patience for a pattern. 

 

"Gotta hand it to you, mate. Lil' rugrat was in bad shape." Dagrat draws out the word _bad_ for emphasis. Roadhog's mighty hands curl into mighty fists. "Ain't your fault, of course, but still. Bad shape."

 

He could squeeze the life out of this piece of shit. It would be easy. Would only take two fingers, any more would be overkill. Just two fingers to squeeze that throat shut, cut off the boy's air forever and never have to listen to him talk about the child he most certainly does not give a damn about -

 

"Little shit has no teeth, right? None at all. Piece says he's too little to have them yet - but he acts like he does! If he don't like you, he'll let you know."

 

Something about that makes Roadhog - Roadhog, not Mako - smile. No. He's got no right to feel anything, least of all pride, for the brat. He needs to cut that shit. Nip the problem at the bud. Eliminate the source. 

 

"Piss off." He snarls with exactly enough force to make the Rat jump back and cower. A little more, and the kid might have carked it on the spot. That would've been highly unfortunate for the caravan. If there's a Rat in the rigging then he's most likely the navigator, and being down a navigator is an unfortunate place to be. 

 

"Oi!" - fucking hell this kid's voice could be downright piercing - " 'scuse you! Rude!" 

 

Roadhog stares at the Rat before him from behind the dark lenses of his mask. The shit has the gall to look indignant. Violence calls to him. Two fingers is all it would take. He breathes in slow and measured. Nobody has to die today. The meet-n-greet is nearly over. They ride in three days' time. A crew needs a navigator. He needs restraint. 

 

He needs to calm down but the kid won't stop yammering. The kid won't let him calm down. Won't let him leave, either. Dagrat just falls into a hurried step along-side him, chattering away. 

 

"There's a lot of younger Rats what don't have names yet. Most of 'em go by their old world names to, you know, keep us separate an' all. Can't call twenty kids 'Little Rat', now can you?" He pauses his tirade for half a second, as if to let his peeved companion answer. As if Roadhog could answer in half a second's time. "Of course not! So, the little tyke - he don't have an old world name. Was wondering if you had something special in mind, all things considered. 'Course, s'not why I'm talking to you. I didn't come here to just chat 'bout your rugrat, no sir -"

 

Roadhog stops walking. Dagrat doesn't notice the great wall of a man lock up, and the idiot crashes right into several hundred kilograms of solid fatty muscle. Naturally, the young Rat falls back into the dirt, a sizable cloud of dry, dry dirt rising up around him like a cloud. Before the annoying fuck can say a word, Roadhog rounds on him.

 

"Want to make something clear." He says, very slowly. He wants to make absolutely sure his message is understood in full. "I found that baby. That's it. He ain't mine. Ain't my responsibility. Ain't my kid."

 

With one hand (it's more than he needs, two fingers would do) he pulls Dagrat up. The one-eyed Rat is held by one hand, suspended two feet above the ground. The kid's got his hands, so pathetically small and thin in comparison, prying at his. There's no use to it. Roadhog could crush this Rat. Bash his head in and crush his throat.

 

"So _piss_ _off_."

 

His piece said, he drops the kid. Mako feels bad as he watches the frightened idiot scramble off, quickly vanishing in the flow of busy crowds. Probably off to go spread the tale with the rest of the Rats because there are no secrets in the Den. Rolling the muscles in his shoulders and ignoring the thrum of energy in his limbs that cry for blood and satisfaction, he starts on gathering his own personal stock of supplies. He wasn't too keen on depending on the virtue of Junkers. Dependence is a weakness, after all. 

 

He glances once more over to the crowds in which Dagrat had vanished. Roadhog smirks, a well of light satisfaction bubbling up within him. Maybe now he'll get some peace. There are no secrets in the Guild of Rats, so Dagrat will spread the story. Now with the threat of his temper, they'll surely leave him alone. 

 

(He is very, very wrong.)

 

In the span of two days he encounters more Rats than he'd previously thought existed. All of them sing the same song. Your kid your baby your son ... His patience is at an all time low. 

 

"Oi. Pig."

 

Another Rat. This one has some nerve. 

 

"Ain'tchu gonna get your brat?" 

 

He's turns around quietly and it was probably a mistake. Probably gave this one the idea that he was going to be polite about this shit. He sees the Rat and his spirit sinks further. It's the older, motherly looking one, the one he handed the little joey off to. She's got fresh grease across her eyes like a band and a nasty scowl. She's not a particular big woman, fairly average actually, but she holds herself like a damn king. The meeker folk move pass them, splitting around them like water does to river rocks. He can respect the imposing air she extrudes, but he won't ask her name. 

 

"Well?" She snaps when Roadhog doesn't answer her, "Ain'tchu?"

 

He grunts in response, and tries to move past her. He's not the damn thing's father. He found him, brought him here, handed him off. Nothing more, nothing less. As he's told the slew of Rats that proceeded this one, there is nothing that makes that baby his, nothing that ties brat to him, and everyone is better off because of it. He shouldn't be allowed near any child. Not with the blood of hundreds on his hands. 

 

This Rat isn't having any of it. She doesn't let him escape at all. She can't out-muscle him, can't pull him back into the center of the market street to continue their conversation, but the shiela has a fierce grip and a sharp eye. She holds on to his leathers and his straps, hissing at her loudest volume, about  _his_  baby,  _his_  child,  _his_  son. She follows him, every twist and every turn. He can't shake her, the older Rat is far too wily and it becomes very obvious that she knows these streets far better than he ever could. 

 

"He ain't my kid!" He roars, his limit finally breached. There's only so much he can take, and three hours of this old cunt nagging his ear off is more than enough. The woman gives him a solid once-over with a critical eye. 

 

"You're old enough." She says.  _You'll do_ , she means. She opens her mouth again as if to continue her tirade but there's an explosion followed by the sound of gunfire. There's screaming too, coming from the north gate if he's not mistaken. 

 

"This ain't over, mate." She sneers, letting go of him and running towards the sound of all the commotion. For a moment he thinks her an idiot. Suicidal. Looking for a fight. It's then, just as she slips out of sight, that he sees the Red Cross on the back of her ragged vest, bold and bright among the dullness of dust-covered and dust-colored people. Her hurried departure makes more sense now. He watches her run against the current of panicked Junkers fleeing. He sees her vanish, swallowed up, not a second later. Just a regular bleeding heart Rat. 

 

He follows the rushing crowd, and proceeds on his way. 

 

He's gone the next day, riding point on his chopper. The wind's sting is refreshing. Even the endlessly streatcing sepia scenery is welcomed. The younger crew members of the rigs behind him whoop and holler in wild abandon, swinging from the ropes and all but dancing from vehicle to vehicle. The crisis made animals of them all. 

 

There's no shame in it anymore. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Time passes and jobs with it. It's been six months since he found that baby and he's not allowed to forget it, because the Rats don't give him a moment's peace. Roadhog has seen sixteen Rats too many in the past three days. The next one he sees will die. No exceptions. 

 

One exception. 

 

It's the young nameless Rat, the very first one they sent - and she's not alone. There's a very familiar baby in her arms, pitching a very familiar tantrum. Roadhog almost doesn't recognize the tiny 'roo now that he's fed. He still looks too small for a baby, but he's definitely grown some since he was found. The second those too-big, too-bright eyes fall on him, the little shit stops mid-fit. One little fist beats lightly at the little Sheila's arm.  _Look! Look!_  He says with his wide, gummy smile. He makes grabby hands at Roadhog. The young Rat tries to hide a grin in her shoulder. 

 

"T-told you." She says, offering up the baby, "He m-m-missed y-you."

 

"Ain't mine." Roadhog tries to be stern but Mako leaks into his voice. Weakness leaks into his voice. Bloody fucking hell. 

 

"I k-know." She says simply, holding the baby out to him still, "B-but y-y-your his."

 

Roadhog freezes up for a moment. The tiny thing curls and giggles and reaches for him. It's a hard fight to push Mako back down. It's a hard fight that he's not winning. Anything but that. 

 

"Don't work like that." He says and he sounds weak. He sounds fragile. He sounds like Mako. 

 

"W-why n-n-not ?" She says, tilting her head. She moves, switching back to cradling the baby. It's not because the offer to take him is rescinded but because she can only hold the squirmy brat out at  arms' length for so long. The baby looks sad, looks up at him, straight past the mask.  _But, but -_  his too big, too bright eyes say as they mist over. Something pulls and tears at  him. The little rugrat's going to cry in that soft quiet way. That soft quiet way that's wrong. 

 

Roadhog doesn't answer.  Doesn't want to answer. It doesn't matter if the child chose him, he shouldn't have. The little baby is everything Roadhog is not and everything that Mako does not deserve. He has no right. It doesn't matter who he is - Roadhog or Mako - both are murderers. Life-ruiners. He took away this child's future before he was even a concept in his parents heads, and now the world seems dead-set on giving him the opportunity to do it again. To fuck up this child's life again. 

 

"Why do you care?" Roadhog growls. His emotions are in chaos, fraying and burning up inside him. 

 

"W-want him t-to b-b-be h-happy. H-he's g-g-got t-the ch-chance th-that m-m-most of u-us d-d-don't h-have." She murmurs, holding the tiny thing tight. He may not like her too much, but it's clear that she likes him. Roadhog shifts, uncomfortably. 

 

"N-nobody s-s-sent m-me. I-uh I s-sn-snuck out." She blurts out. She must have read his body language.

 

"Clever as a Dunny rat, huh?" He says and watches the girl flush. Embarrassment. Pride. Mako takes hold of him again, using his hands to reach out for the tiny baby. He draws back out of fear. 

 

"Deserves better than me, he does." He says after a long silence. 

 

"I th-think it's a p-perfect f-fit." The little sheila replies, and this time, when she holds out the baby, he takes him. The weight is familiar. The gummy smile is familiar. It feels nice. 

 

He doesn't deserve nice. 

 

He shouldn't - can't do this. But the Mako in him says differently, and Roadhog knows that he must. Once again he has no choice. He tries to bring himself to mind, but there is nothing. Cornered, but unaffected. 

 

"What've you been calling him?" He asks, looking to the girl. She locks up. Freezes, with eyes wide and bright. 

 

"J-Jamis-son!" She blurts out, shakey and stammered. Mako looks back down to the tiny little thing in his arms. 

 

"Jamison?" Roadhog snorts. 

 

"Hemi." Mako murmurs. 

 

 

Hemi. It's a good name. 

 

 

 

 

He'll keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upd8s will be sporadic because I'm supposed to be writing a thesis. I'd honestly rather die.


	3. Pokarekare Ana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tiny hands ... my only weakness."

Sometimes he forgets how old he is - or, rather, how young he is. He's only twenty-three. He feels older than that. Much older. Maybe it's a side effect from watching the world end. Maybe it's a side effect from having a hand in ending it. It doesn't matter - nothing changes the fact that he almost had a future, but he chose wrong. Traded his college diploma for a gun. Traded Australia for ruin.

He was twenty. Twenty was too young. Too young to go to war. Too young to make a mess that will scar his homeland for centuries. Too young to bring about the apocalypse with a rag-tag coalition of assholes that would rather salt and burn the earth than let the government take their land. He was too young to make that decision that night, but he did it anyways. He was too young then, and he's too young now - but he does it anyways. He makes another decision that he's too young to make.

He accepts the child. Keeps it. It's his baby now, just as the Rats have been insisting for months.

(He grows attached. Possessive? Protective?)

( _What's mine is mine._ )

The little thing stirs, but doesn't wake. Instead he wiggles a bit, curling up tighter in the crook of his elbow. He makes a soft noise, maybe a laugh, maybe more babble. Either way, he seems content. Rats will pass by, busy with work or turning in for the day and they'll comment, oh, how sweet or oh, you're a natural. It's not right. How could they say such things? After what he's done? After what he's done, how could they let him near a child?

He feels wrong. Everything about it feels wrong. Every fiber of his being whispers that he shouldn't. That he's wrong. That he's bad and doesn't deserve to even be near something so innocent because he'll ruin it. He'll ruin it just as he ruined his country. Tainted forever. Irreversible damage done to the world. Irreversible damage done to a child.

Roadhog laughs bitterly. As if his actions haven't already caused irreversible damage to scores of children across the outback. He's one of the men who ended the world. Who survived the initial blast. He served the Liberation Front under Reina. This is all his fault. He is responsible for this end of civilization, for the mass casualties. For the absolute death of innocence. But watching the corruption happen before his eyes, slowly - a child rotting from the inside out - is another beast entirely. He doesn't think Mako would survive that. Mako would die again, fully, leaving Roadhog with the child. Leaving a true monster to raise a child.

They're condemning Hemi before he even has a chance to live.

The worst part of it is that he'll never let go. The right thing is to give Hemi a proper chance. Hand him off to somebody else, somebody better. Leave his life and never return - but he can't do that. He's selfish. He'll never let go. He'd sooner die.

( _What's mine is mine._ )

This refusal to do the right thing, to let Hemi go, will rot them both from the inside out. Kill all the innocence, drain it bit by bit from those bright big eyes -

He feels a weak throb of pain. It startles him, dragging him from his thoughts and back into reality. The brat had bit him. No teeth to speak of and yet it still hurt. Little blighter had bitten his arm. Well. Gummed his arm. Very hard.

"You're a right pain in the arse." He growls.

 _Good_ , the defiant stare replies.

He glares at the stupid brat a while longer. The stare hold until he has to break it himself. Stupid tiny shitty baby. Roadhog is a merciless killer, over seven feet tall, and yet nothin about him can scare this tiny child. He is simply too brave. Or stupid. Hemi could just be stupid. He is willing to bet this isn't the case. It might be Roadhog's pessimism. It might be Mako's burgeoning parental pride. Either way, he strongly suspects that Hemi is far from stupid.

"Brat." He grunts.

He's met with narrowed eyes, an indifferent face, and a very wide yawn. It isn't long before Hemi's gone back to dreamland and he's once more left alone in his thoughts, remembering the good times, the times long since passed and ended. But those thoughts don't come back. He can't focus on them and they don't stir. For once, his mind won't let him dwell on the past.

Instead his attention drifts back to the little thing in his arms. The baby, his baby. Tiny and terrible, Roadhog's son - already whispers of it have sprung up around Junkertown. Let them talk. Let them all talk about Roadhog and his nameless runty son.

"Give him a name yet?"

The sudden appearances of Rats don't startle him anymore. Each and every damn one has the capacity to just appear behind him, no sound, no warning. It's become a fact of life that he's just had to accept with grace over these past few months. He's grown used to their antics and a part of him hates it.

He knows which Rat it is too. The rough, sarcastic drawl is unique to his least favorite Rat - the bleeding-heart medic. Great.

He shouldn't be so nasty towards her. She's helped him more than anyone else. She actually does know how to raise a child and she's been teaching him. He really shouldn't give her so much bitter attitude. She might be mostly unpleasant but she doesn't deserve full hostility. Doesn't even really deserve partial hostility.

He grunts. He's given the 'roo a name. The only issue is that it's not a proper name, and something vicious brews up in him at the thought of others using it. They don't deserve it. Don't deserve to speak it. Don't deserve to know it.

(He doesn't deserve it either.)

"He'll start thinking his name is 'Little Shit', you know." The Rat frowns. The grease on her face is old and smeared. He can see the crows' feet that line her burning eyes. There's disapproval written there, written all over her face.

He doesn't respond. She'll eventually leave if he doesn't respond. He knows her enough by now - a firm leader, worthy of respect. He still won't ask her name. He's a rude cunt like that.

He doesn't respond to any of her nagging and jabs. Mako distracts himself with a very important discovery. Running his fingers through Hemi's baby curls is the most calming, pleasing thing in existence. It's so soft, and the little 'roo seems to love the attention, soft breathy giggles and smiles escaping him even in his sleep.

"Fucking wanker - here! Take this." The older Rat hisses, her patience worn away to nothing. She drops a burlap satchel in his lap. There's the sound of glass hitting glass, and something might have shattered, but the Rat is too done with him to give a single shit. Mako feels a twinge of regret. Roadhog snorts.

"Here. He oughta be old enough for some solid food. Try it." She all but sneers before storming off back towards the Den. No doubt sticking her nose into others' business again.

"Thanks."

He smirks when he hears the Rat's barely contained scream. Such a proud one, that Rat.

He opens up the bag and fishes out a jar with his free hand. It's baby food. Legitimate baby food. Mako feels a twinge of regret, being an arse to the Rat. Legitimate food in any form was a downright pain to find, never mind pay for. And her she'd just given a fucking bag full to him. Just like that.

The fact that she's a Rat leads him to trust the contents of the bag. Ultimately all Rats are the same - they prefer peace and dialogue to conflict and murder.

Roadhog takes out one of the orange-mush jars and inspects it. Sweet potato. He cracks it open, pushes his mask up just enough, and has a taste. Nothing deadly that he can identify. Just the nostalgic flavor of sweet potatoes. He dips his pinky finger in and adjusts Hemi, shaking the kid awake as gently as he can manage. The boy wakes up slowly, glaring with bleary eyes. He makes disgruntled noises.

Mako offers the child his pinky. Hemi latches on with his tiny hands in an instant. By now he's noticed the orange shit on his finger. He licks some right up and makes a face.

"Better eat that shit up, brat." He grumbles, a frown twitching at the corners of his mouth, "We ain't wasting food."

The little shit looks right up at him. Meets his eyes with the most defiant face he's seen in a very long time. _Stupid-head_ , he says, but he swallows his mush (messily, with at least half of it accidentally spilling down his chin) and accepts more bites.

Tiny thing nearly finishes the whole little glass. He helps with the last remnants, enjoying the short lived indulgence that was mushy sweet potatoes for babies. He's proud of his little rat. Hemi had eaten far more than he'd expected. As a reward after his little burp session (no baby vomit, thank fuck), he gets an extra song.

The words are quicker to his tongue now, and the melody flows through him with the smooth steadiness that only practice can bring. He hums the instrumental parts and sings with a softer voice, one that he's been practicing at Mako's insistence. Because Hemi deserves something soft. Soft is a rare luxury in Oz and Hemi deserves it.

He starts petting Hemi's hair again. It's just so soft, he can't help it. The tiny thing giggles and claps and takes advantage of the presented opportunity by snatching his index finger in both his tiny baby hands. They're so small in comparison. They can't even cover the circumference of his monstrous fingers - fingers that have crushed skulls and rib cages. Fingers that have relearned gentleness and sweetness. Fingers that revel in the softness of blond baby curls. Hemi holds his index finger like a lifeline in his tiny, tiny hands, ignorant of the damage they've done. Ignorant of the blood they've shed and the sins they've committed. No, Hemi doesn't know a lick about any of that. Hemi doesn't see the monster that inhabits his body. Hemi only sees the giant hand has returned for cuddles, and he hugs his finger appropriately - close and tight.

"Tiny hands..." Mako's voice rumbles, smooth and deep, the ghost of a smile finding its way on his lips, "My only weakness."

Hemi smiles, sleepy eyes and sleepy wiggles. He doesn't let go of his finger. Mako doesn't pull away. He stays like that, seated on the metal ledge before the Den, the tiny baby snuggled in the crook of his arm, watching the burning sun fall below the empty horizon. He's filled with a type of peace that's slowly becoming more and more familiar to him.

Gods alive and dead, he doesn't deserve this. This is far too good for him.

Fuckers would have to tear this good from his cold dead hands.

( _What's mine is mine._ )

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hemi is the Maori form of James. This will be addressed later during more Mako angst. Look forward to it!


	4. Kookaburra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remember this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked really hard on this chapter, trying to recapture the original tone of what was supposed to be a little slice-of-life two-shot. But you guys are getting Plot instead!
> 
> Anxiety and thesis are kicking my ass bUT my thesis is lending to this fic in really juicy worldbuilding ways! Mmmm delicious. 
> 
> Shout out to my super cool reviewers! I reread your comments at least twice a week. They give me strength to keep going! (ɔᐛ )ɔ 
> 
> Prepare for some time skips ahead!

_Do you know what these lines mean, Mako?_

_No Whaea, what?_

_They mean -_

He jolts awake, half tangled in the best of blankets that various Rats had donated him. So many dreams now. So many memories. Mako's life comes to him every night now, snippets of something long gone and better off forgotten. Those memories taste more bitter than sweet. He's consumed with negatives in the morning because of them, eyes lined with dark shadows from fitful sleep.

A cry is raised. Loud. Shrill. Upset. He's gone and woken Hemi up. Startled the tiny thing that had been happily nestled in his hold, snuggled up to his warmth and breathing. His tiny face is red and pinched and now wet with tears and snot. Tiny angry fists wave about and the shit's kicking furiously. The tiny blows rain down on him, as fruitless, ineffective, and annoying as a rain of pebbles kicked up by treads but he's got no right to be pissed at Hemi. He deserves this. This is the fifth time this week he's woken the poor boy up. The child doesn't deserve this.

He should have never agreed to take the baby in. Never agreed to keep him. Never agreed to become a father. He has the great big hands of a brute. How dare he use them to cradle such a small, innocent thing. How dare he use hands that have killed, hands that have destroyed thousands of lives, to even touch something good. Something pure. Untainted. Yet to be ruined. The right thing to do is give Hemi up. Give Hemi to good people. Proper people.

Roadhog snorts.

Since when has he ever done the right thing?

He knows in his core that there are no proper people left for Hemi. The Rats had pestered him until he took the damn thing back. He knows now it's because they don't have the room for more mouths. If he wanted Hemi to have a chance, dragging the kid out of Oz was the only shot. Roadhog likes to think he refuses because of the hassle. Mako knows it's because he's far too attached now.

Hemi is _his_.

He brushes a finger through the boy's soft hair. It's not that curly anymore, having grown in thick and wild. It's a fluffy mess of cowlicks now, but it's still the softest thing left in the outback. Nothing short of a treasure. A hum builds in his chest, and as soon as the melody catches the boy's attention and stills the tantrum, the words follow. The tears dry up and the sniffling lessens and he even earns a tiny smile from the baby. He's finally started teething, biting and gnawing at anything and everything, much to the Rat's chagrin. Several Rats now just flat out refuse to hold the boy because unlike the other babies they've dealt with, Hemi's teeth have come in sharp.

A nibble. A bite. If his fingers weren't so large, weren't so calloused, the tiny shit would've certainly drawn blood. The pain brings him back. Grounds him.

"Deserved that." He grunts. Hemi lets go, satisfied with his revenge. He snuggles back into the proper crook of his elbow, content once again.

"Gonna be going away again."

Why is he talking. Why does this matter. Hemi's too young to care, too young to talk back.

"Better be good for the Rats," He breaths. His heartbeat stutters and races and he has no idea why he's riled, "Got it?"

This is stupid. Why.

Hemi gurgles, kicking his feet and squirming in that weird way he does when he's happy. Mako smiles with him. Roadhog is still - something. The feeling is unidentifiable and it persists.

He doesn't end up sleeping. Too much in his head for a peaceful sleep. The dreams, the memories, are more draining than staying awake, so he does. He stubbornly stays awake and sings until morning. His throat is scratchy and sore by the time the sun licks at the floor of the pathetic one-room shack, filtering through the gaps in the uneven, shoddy construction. For some reason, far beyond him, he doesn't mind. He watches the tiny boy stretch and squirm as the sun reaches him, ruining sleep with too much light. Bleary eyes open and squint. Ah, Hemi's cranky today. It's his fault, for waking him again.

Better feed him before it gets worse.

He gets up, setting Hemi down in his secure nest of blankets with the hopes the little shit won't crawl away as he's been prone to doing ever since he learned how. Tiny bastard has nearly been crushed underfoot over a dozen times. He's a curious little blighter. It's gonna get him really hurt one day. Mako wants to protect him, shield him from everything. That's unfeasible. Impossible. He settles and just hopes for the best. It's all he can do, really.

"Mashed peas for brekkie." He says, cracking the little jar of expired baby food open. Hemi says nothing, still wearing his grumpy face. He bites when offered the green paste, but that's expected.

"Pull that shit again." Roadhog's voice is a low, looming rumble. It's the false promise of pain (false Hemi is his what's his is his and he does not break his things).

Hemi fixes him with a look. A squirmy grin, _Okie-doki_.

Little shit bites.  
Again.

Of course.

"I warned you, you little shit." Roadhog snarls before Mako can hold him back. Roadhog's voice is deep. Gravely. The true essence of violence sits in that voice, and with it, he's made whimpering fools out of hardened survivalists. Hemi is a baby, hardly a year old. By all logic, Roadhog should terrify him. He should terrify him. He doesn't.

Hemi isn't afraid of him. Not even a little bit - and he's not at all sure how to handle it. Part of him, not wholly Mako and not wholly Roadhog, is proud of the kid's guts. Another part of him, again, neither wholly Mako nor wholly Roadhog, is terrified. Fear is what keeps people alive. What keeps them from pulling stupidly suicidal shit.

He worries.

He needs Hemi to survive. Needs Hemi to live. Live beyond him. Fuck, he's a proper parent now, isn't he? Wanting his kid to outlive him. Wanting his kid to be a grown terror long after he himself is one with the dirt. That's atrocious. Dangerous. Needs to stop.

He shakes those thoughts out of his head. Continues feeding Hemi until the jar of baby mush is empty and the boy burps, satisfied with his meal.

"Brave lil' bastard, ain't you?" He hums, wiping up Hemi's chin. Messy eater that kid.

Hemi giggles. _Damn right!_ he means. Mako lets a few chuckles out too. The tiny thing rolls on his side in the nest, determined and rearing to go as he begins to crawl. His destination isn't out of reach for once, but his lap. His great belly is embraces with tiny arms that don't even span the width of his tattoo. Mako melts. Even Roadhog softens.

"Stop it." He says. _Love you too_ , he means.

He scoops up the tiny thing with one hand. Tosses him up too, for good measure, just to hear the shrieks of laughter because only Hemi would be so stupidly fearless. Once caught in his arms, he's pulled tight in the crook of his elbow. Tiny thing, he still can hide there, completely obscured from the world at large. Just like that, for just a moment, he lets the world narrow to just him and Hemi. The world is just him and the tiny, almost negligible, giggly, squirmy weight in his arms. Just him and Hemi. For a moment, that's all that matters.

But he has to go. Has to leave. He's a Junker. There's work to be done. Jobs to be taken.

So he grunts. Gets his bag. His hook. His gun. Everything he's had prepared for the past few nights. Hemi's still tucked happily in the crook of his arm, giggling and clapping at everything, anything, and nothing at all. To be a child again, he things, innocent. Bloodless. Happy.

He heads toward the Den, the path etched in his memory like the lines on his face. His hovel isn't too far. He leaves Hemi with the unnamed girl, the young Rat in the yellow dress. It's hard to leave him this time. He's old enough to recognize the difference between being handed off for a few minutes and being handed off for a few weeks. He's learned to cry. It's that wrong crying that makes Mako weak and Roadhog waver.

"H-h-he'll b-be f-fine. P-p-prom-mise." She swears, standing straight and tall. There's a proud seriousness in her expression as she holds Hemi tightly.

He turns to leave. He hears he try to quell Hemi's tears.

"It's g-gonna b-b-be o-okay Ja-Jamis-son." He hears her say, bouncing the sobbing child in her arms, "Y-your papa w-wi-will b-be b-b-back s-s-soon."

His inners twist uncomfortably. He tries not to dwell on it. He fails, of course. He does nothing but dwell on the girl's words, on the wrongness of Hemi's crying, the entire ride out. It bothers him. It bothers him the whole ride out to Queensland.

They set up camp outside the ruins of Mount Isa. The city's been picked over a few times already, but the motto of this crew is some bullshit like 'there's always more to be found'. Load of crap in his opinion. They're not gonna find shit, but he keeps his opinions to himself. He's not getting paid for his opinions. He's getting paid for his gun and his strength. Whether or not the caravan finds something worth taking is irrelevant. He's getting paid respectably either way.

Once camp is squared away, the scavvers divide the work. The city's cut up into districts - ten of them. A week is devoted to combing each district. Anything of value is to be stripped, from wires to expired canned food to Omnic parts. Anything of value, however, is a finite list.

Singed-but-still-readable books aren't on that list.

The first book he finds is in the ruins of a school. Been a while since he set foot one. He never was much good at school. Formal learning was a pain. Mako was bullied even when he was biggest cunt in the damn place. He wasn't good with anything schools valued in students. Wasn't good with his words. Wasn't good with numbers. Wasn't good with people. He worked hard and harder still and nothing was ever easy. Graduated though. Average grades but his whaea had cried tears of pride.

It's some textbook. 'Advanced' and 'Chemistry' are the only words he can make out on the ashy cover. He tosses it in his bag. He could trade it to a number of Rats for some extra rations. More baby mush. Maybe even something for Hemi to gnaw on.

The second book is found in much more somber circumstances.

The room had been a child's nursery once, in another life. The walls are covered in blue paint, scorched, chipped, peeling, color dulled significantly from exposure and time. It might have been vibrant once, vibrant and beautiful. The crib in the corner is broken, missing a leg and several bars, overturned and the metal bits removed. The rocking chair in the other corner fairs no better. Decay and death scent the air, hanging heavy in the room.

He has never felt so unwelcomed in a place before. He searches for valuables, finding nothing. He disturbs as little as possible. Everything he moves or bumps is righted with a gentle reverence he didn't know he possessed. He never put stock into the superstitions of his mother and her people (his people too, he can almost hear her say), but this place ...

The book is a child's book, or that's what he assumes by the pictures. The story is longer, wordier than the typical child's bedtime tale. There's also something sad about it. Something that brings tears to Mako's eyes. He pockets the book, deciding against trading it. He'll have to teach Hemi to read someday, won't he? Having at least one book for the kid is a smart move.

He pretends the words he read don't shake him. Another lie. Another self-delusion.

( _it is the time you wasted on your rose that makes your rose so important_ )

The third book is found in the ruins of an office building. It's a tiny cardboard baby book. It's colorful and in the best condition he's seen yet for surviving books. Hemi will enjoy this book too, he thinks. It'll teach him (unmutated) animals and (not irradiated) colors.

The fourth and fifth books are found in the library's children section - or, at least, what remained of it. He didn't read the covers, just tossed them in.

More books followed. He carries them all. Keeps them all. Some are for Hemi. Some are for trade deals with Rats. Some are for his own enjoyment.

It takes ten weeks to sweep through Mount Isa. It's a little over a two week trip back to Junkertown. They all almost make it. Almost.

"Raiders!" The navigator, a shrill-voiced Bird caws from their ropes. He hears them raise the alarm and his hand falls to his hook, eyes on the coming horizon. There. Raiders approaching port-side of their heading, nothing much more than specks, but with the size of the dust clouds they're kicking up, they won't be specks for long.

"Do we race them?" The cry goes up, echoed from rig to rig in the caravan.

"No!" The captain's decision is relayed quickly from Crier to Crier, as the rest of the crewmates ready themselves and their chosen weapons, "Too risky!"

"We stopping?"

"No! We're fighting stick! Brace yourselves!"

He grimaces under his mask. He's riding a chopper, not a rig. He can't do much if they're fighting stick. It's not like he's got a co-pilot.

"Oi, Pig!" One of the members of the nearest rig, a reasonably tough-looking Dog calls to him, "You take out some of their tires?"

That?

He can do that. Easily.

He hangs his hook back on his belt and grabs his scrap gun instead. Four scrap shots. Best make them count. He speeds up towards point. Gives the tire orders to the other scavvers on motorcycles. Most of them agree to it.

The raiders get close enough for the bomb-lobbers and the few skilled, daring fucks who like to shoot scrap-rifles. All hell breaks loose after that. The bombs stir up chaos, sounds, and dust and that's more than enough cover for him to ruin four tires, sending four very unfortunate enemy rigs down. He reloads as best he can with one hand. Enough for two shots. He makes the next one count, bringing down another vehicle, but the last shot misses and scrapes a fuel tank. He pulls back.

There's screaming. More screaming. Gunshots. Scrap shrapnel. Explosions and blood-tinted dust. Eventually the raiders pull back. He hears somebody from the closest rig, over the roaring wind and retreating engines, praise a number of gods and curse about a dozen more.

"Damn Raider Dogs," he hears them swear, "Getting ballsy."

He agrees.

They make it back to Junkertown with a better haul than he had expected, but there was a heavy toll for their scrap. Over a dozen of Junkers didn't make it back, and more toted injuries from the Raider attack.

Where there is injury, there's Her. His least favorite Rat.

"G'day cobber." She says, wiping her bloodied hands on a mostly clean rag. Her smile is wry and her grease paint smudged by sweat and time, "Been a while."

" 'M fine." He grunts, moving out of the stubborn older woman's warpath.

"Ah. Of course you are." The medic Rat smirks, "You're jus' dandy, ain't you? And back just in time for the full moon! What good luck!"

He locks up. Groans. The full moon.

The Dust Council.

The damn terrible creature is barely containing her amusement. Smugness radiates from her as she sews up another scavanger.

"Best get going if you wanna get a good seat." She says, snipping the dark thread with a quick snap of her teeth, "Time's wasting!"  
  
He growls, takes his payment and his share of the scraps. Storms off and leaves his motorcycle there at the station. If he has to go to the bullshit Dirt Council he might as well go sloshed beforehand. Might make the whole affair a bit more tolerable.

He doesn't really get a chance.

He doesn't get past the edge of the market before he's swept away with the sea of people, moving and flooding the broad main street in their haste. Faces he knows, hates, and respects among faces unknown and meaningless to him. Resigning himself to sober boredom, he grabs a spot near the left fork, towards the back. He never talks much at these things, instead favoring the corners and shadows and places that allow him a speedy escape.

The elected speaker of this council is an old Viper, a streak of grey in her dark, dark hair. She walks into the center of the gathering, taking up the lit torch passed to her. A glance up at the moon, it's late enough. Time to start. She tosses the torch into the dry branches and kindling and the bonfire roars to life. Shadows cast by the fire dance on the faces of the attending, eerie and solemn.

"Right!" The Viper shouts over the din of the crowd and the crackling fire, "Time to start!"

Simple. Easy. No pomp and circumstance with this one. Good. He can get behind that. Speakers what beat around the bush with fancy, meaningless words are godawful. The old Viper will, at the very least, lessen the pain that attending the council is.

She clears her throat - and is interrupted immediately.

"It's been three bloody years!" Someone shouts. Somebody to his approximate left, but he's not particularly paying attention. He hates the gatherings as a whole, but not everyone can be like him. Not everyone can just ditch their humanity. Not everyone can just ditch their societal ways. At least tonight isn't gonna be dull, he thinks, as he watches the Viper quietly step back into the crowd, letting somebody new take the floor.

"Ain't nobody's coming!" The same person shouts again, moving forward through the crowds to the center of the Council and Roadhog feels as if he vaguely recognizes them by the sound of their voice. Or maybe he just recognizes the anger of their tone. The viciousness in their voice. They're nobody he recognizes once they step into the light.

"So we're gonna sit here and become animals? Criminals?" It's a Bird who speaks this time. Leave it to the Birds to feign morality.

"Can't be criminals, you wanker - you need a government for that, 'n this land ain't got any of their shit-" It's one of the few Rats that he can tolerate who takes the floor. The old sniper from the Liberatiom Front. Diggerrat, as his name is now, " 'Sides, nobody's gonna fuckin' _sit here_. You sit here and you end up dyin' mate."

"The Rat's got a point." One of the Dog's leaders grunts, gesturing sharply with a jerk of his chin, "You want a cushy life, go make for Sydney. Go be a Suit."

The air sours instantly. The Bird's feathers are ruffled and her face is pinched. Her expression is nothing but ugly murder. It was a nasty insult. Wounds were still fresh. Three years doesn't change shit, doesn't heal shit, especially when the government that betrayed you pretends you don't exist to the point of cruelty. Sure, the Liberation Front is none too popular among the crowd, but the hatred for them is nothing compared to the wealthy bureaucrats who displaced thousands of people for murderous hunks of scrap.

It's astonishing how quickly 'Suit' became the worst insult a Junker could sling.

"You lot best shut your gobs!" A Dog speaks up, her voice commanding and needlingly familiar. She stands fairly tall among the crowd. Everyone else cowering around her and the slightest hint of aggression in her authoritarian voice didn't help, and he honestly can't blame any of them. The scars on her face are mean and deep and her eyes burn that same unnerving gold shade that denotes extreme radiation exposure. She doesn't have the shit brick house type of intimidating that Roadhog totes, but the predatory type of intimidating. All gold-eyed Junkers are, as he's found. Something about the radiation just fucks with their brains, makes something otherly and unstable crawl under their skins.

Roadhog had to work to abandon his humanity, kill after kill after kill. Hers probably leaked out in the night, drained away by morning.

"Nobody's gonna come. There's not a single bloody quid to be made in helping us, so why should any Suit bother?" She snarls, sharp eyes meeting everyone's as she carries herself to the center of the dust circle, "Remember this!"

"Remember this right here is the closest we got to government!" She cries, and there's something in her eyes, in her face that Mako doesn't trust, "Remember this is where they all left us to die when we refused to leave our homes!"

"Remember this is the city we built with our own bloody fucking hands! With nothing but our heads and hands and the monsters - we rebuilt the bush! No help from nobody, just the labor of our own!" She barks, eyes wild and alight. Her right fist is raised above her head and there's a loud chorus of enthusiastic agreements. The firelight flickers and casts sinister shadows across her scars and the air is suddenly difficult to breath even with his mask filters.

"Remember this is our third year of scrapping! Of scavving! Of carving out what little we can in the irradiated mess that monsters have brought upon us!"

He's not afraid, but this tight feeling in his chest is very, very close. Her words ring throughout the Dust Council's assembly, stirring up more young men and women and idiots up. Her words bring out what they think is righteous anger and courage, they stand tall and proud by her with their fists raise and voices heard. He knows where this is going. He's seen it, heard it all before. Different eyes, different ears - a different man heard different words, but a monster can spot another monster all the same.

"Remember this is what we gotta do to survive! And we've done so much more than that!" The crowd around her roars with her, guttural sounds of agreement. Illuminated by the fire, consumed by the rising fever pitch, they all look like beasts.

"Remember this!" She's screaming now, her voice louder than the chanting and cackling of the people she's whipped into a frenzy. Louder than the roar of the bonfire. Louder than life and God itself. "Remember! Because the world has so eagerly forgotten us! Because the world wants to forget what they've done and what they refuse to do. Don't let them! Don't you dare let them!"

Her smile, illuminate by fire, is vicious and red. All too easily he can imagine the light as blood and the shadows as meat.

"Remember this! Remember Oz! Remember _us_!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some questions to mull over:
> 
> If Rats are the guild of engineers and doctors, what does that make Vipers? Birds? Dogs?
> 
> How does one earn the first name 'Junk'? What does it mean to bear the name 'Junk'?


	5. Pure Imagination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll run to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked really really hard on this chapter and I know I said that there would be some time skipping but this was important. Really important. Because my dudes, theres some plot shit heavy plot shit i hope it goes well

He ends up keeping most of the books he found at Mount Isa. They were hard to part with, even the ones that were useless to him. There was something about having books again that was nice. Comforting. It was a painless thing from Before. Mako had missed them. Had missed the simplicity of the joy they held, little pieces of Elsewhere. 

 

Hemi seems to enjoy them too. 

 

He holds the tiny thing in the crook of an arm. He holds up a book in his other. Then he reads. He reads out loud, soft and low, until sleep weighs on him and the brat he holds. When he feels the lids of his eyes grow heavy, he marks his place and moves towards the soft corner of his shack where his bedroll and Hemi’s blanket nest. He lays Hemi down with all the gentleness he can summon, and then he lies alongside the boy. 

 

There are nights when no book can substitute for a song. Nights when only Mako’s soft tenor is the only remedy, There are also nights that Hemi will fight his sleepiness just for the chance to hear a song. Nights in which bleary eyes blink up tiredly, begging for a lullaby. 

 

Tonight is one of the latter nights it seems. He's finished one of the books, probably for the third time, and yet Hemi hasn't quite settled. Wide eyes, half hidden by heavy lids, blink sluggishly up at him. The brat begins to squirm some. The attempts are feeble and slow and sleepy. 

 

He sighs, setting the book down to push his mask up and off. It falls to the flow with a gentle thump. He opens his mouth, a short little lullaby on his tongue, but no melody falls from his lips. Instead, something catches in his throat and heart, and an apology comes forth instead. 

 

“ … ‘m leaving again.” Mako confesses. Hemi’s face scrunches up, a pout taking his little face and sleepy legs kicking weakly at the air. 

 

He takes in a slow breath. “Leaving in the morning.”

 

Hemi’s tired eyes meet his.  _ Go? _ He asks. 

 

“S’not long, not like last time.” He says, “Be back soon. I promise.” He says it, and he means it with all that he is. All of Mako. All of Roadhog. All of him. 

 

Hemi whimpers. His lower lip wobbles. 

 

“Don't you dare.” Roadhog grumbles, but there's no edge to his tone, no bite to his words, “Gotta get scrap to sell to buy you food, you brat.”

 

Hemi is a troublesome lil’ blighter. He bites and screams and crawls everywhere, making a mess out of everything he can reach and he enjoys every single bit of his chaos. Naturally, he doesn't pay a damn smidge of attention to Roadhog, and begins to wail anyways. It's the wrong crying that makes Mako weak and Roadhog waver.   
  
So he breaths, slow and deep. The words of the first song he thinks of rise up. The notes float from him, sung with his apologies, his regrets. 

 

“Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree … Merry, merry king of the bush is he …”

 

Hemi fights him. Fights the song. Fights his own drowsiness. But he's still only a baby - he can't evade sleep for very long. One yawn, two yawns, three yawns … soon enough Hemi’s eyes fall shut and breathing slows to an even rhythm. He settles the boy into his crib-like nest of blankets and sprawls out on his bedroll, exhausted. 

 

Barely conscious, he curls an arm around the blanket. He casts one last look at Hemi (his little nose is scrunched up but his face is sweet), brushes his thumb through his mess of gold cowlicks (the last soft thing in the Outback, the last good thing in Oz). Only then, with that two foot tall pile of blanket scraps sufficiently guarded, with Roadhog’s most precious treasure hidden by his own body, does he let sleep take him away. 

 

He wakes with a start from Hemi’s usual good morning bite. His latest habit. His happy lil’ fucker is cooing and beaming, tiny form draped over his chest. He's not much of a fan of Hemi’s biting habits (only five teeth in that mouth so far, and all of them are too damn sharp), but if Hemi’s early riser habit leads him to crawl over to him and nibble and gnaw on his shoulder fat until he wakes up - well, he's got to be okay with that. It's a thousand times better than the brat fucking off and crawling into shit he shouldn't. 

 

“I’m up, I’m up - cut that shit out.” He grumbles. He looks over to the little shit and Hemi’s smiling that wide not-so-gummy-anymore smile. The corner of his lip twitches, turns up. One day that smile will be worse than a shark’s.

 

It’s kinda cute.

 

“Brekkie first.” He grunts, scooping the boy up with one arm. Hemi bursts out into peals of pointless laughter. He’s such a happy kid. Roadhog wonders how long that will last.

 

“Then -” He pauses. Chokes on the rest of the sentence, but manages to swallow it back down.

No. Just like he said, breakfast first. Then the Rats.   
  
Diggerrat is the only Rat he finds at the Den that he even remotely trusts. The medic is at the first aid stand at the market and the unnamed girl is simply ‘out’. So to Diggerrat Hemi goes. The old cunt holds the boy at an arm’s length as he thrashes and cries, face lined with tired resignation. Hemi doesn’t stop his fit for a second, hurt and anger made clear in the sheer volume of his screeching.

 

He has to leave, not because he’s late for the scav job, but because he’s weak. Because Mako’s still alive in him, and Mako can’t stomach it. Can’t stomach making Hemi so upset. Can’t stomach the constant coming and going. Can’t stomach the constant leaving. It has everything to do with Mako’s fear. It’s a very real, very valid fear.   
  
It’s possible that one day, he’ll leave. He’ll part with Hemi, only to return to nothing. 

 

He pulls Roadhog to the surface, assuming the murderous air as easily as one puts on a mask, and pushes Mako back down. Now, as he lumbers over to the servo and his chopper, is not the time for feelings. Now is the time for business.

 

He’s not too late. Half the crew has yet to ready up. Among them he sees familiar faces. People he trusted in a fight. People he trusted behind the wheel of a rig. People he trusted in the rigging. Among them he also sees people he wouldn’t trust to load a scrap gun. Green-noses, newly named, and the downright sinister.

 

She’s there. The Dog with the gold eyes.

 

He avoids her gaze. Avoids her entirely. He knows the feeling of eyes on his back. Known it intimately since he was small and the world was alive. He knows the difference between the prickles up his spine, knows the curious stares from the cruel ones. The one he feels most is indescribable. He knows it’s hers. It can’t be anyone else’s.

 

And so they ride.

 

It’s not that long a ride, only a few days of travel. If they hadn’t had a run in with raiders, they might have even made it to the damn town ahead of schedule.

 

It’s only a small band of Vipers, their patchwork and stolen rigs set in a line on the east horizon. They exchange fire from a distance. Won’t let them get too close - either by moving back or sending out grenades with a bigger punch than anything. Thats only about half the things that he can name that were just _wrong_ about the encounter.  
  
Unease blooms up in him as the Vipers cease their fire and their caravan moves on. The Vipers watch them go, making no move to follow. Making no move at all. They just watch.

 

It’s not good.    
  
He shakes out the thought as much as he can - it won’t leave him completely, these things could never - he needs to focus. He’s hired as point security. There are lives on the line that he’s obligated to fight for. He needs his wits with him. __  
__  
They reach the town in the early morning. The chill in the air bites and the vaguely toxic mist stings. It’s an mid rim town, left in low radiation and metal shambles. It bares the scars of initial looting, but there’s plenty of scrap lying about. Hell, there’s even some of the rarer types of things - things that Junkertown would pay the prettiest sum for. It seems to be a scavenger's dream, arms open and waiting for the strip of all valuables hidden within the small acres.

 

They're divided up into groups and designated a loosely defined sector of the damn place to strip and search - the average scavenger method. He's placed in the same group as the gold-eyed Dog. Excellent. Because he needed even more shit to worry about. He huffs. Growls. Only the skittish Bird who insists on sticking in his shadow probably heard his grumbling. He can tell by the cunt’s twitchy, ready hand at his machete.

 

He feels a little better.

 

Their company walks through the empty town, footsteps echoing and toxic mist swirling in their wake. It’s so fucking eerie. Nobody says a word. Everyone holds their breath. Everyone holds their weapon of choice at the ready. It's somewhat validating - he's not the only one to sense that something is off here. 

 

Stray bots litter the roads and torn-up sidewalks. Metal carcasses are found everywhere. Bastion units, mostly, but a few of the aerial makes crop up here and there on partially collapsed building tops. It’s fairly clear that this little nowhere town was hit particularly hard by Omnics. The  _ why _ part, however, doesn’t add up. They’re a solid month’s worth of travel from the Omnium, and the skeleton of the town doesn’t brag or give indication of it being significant in any way, shape, or form. Something here is off. 

 

To call the town suspicious is a gross understatement. He doesn’t feel good about it. Doesn’t like it. Not a bit. Most of the crew feels the same. Something here is  _ wrong _ . 

 

One of the Vipers nudges the detached head of a Bastion unit. It rolls a short distance, and in the light of the morning sun, he can see the copper glint of unskinned wires. It all looks too good to be true. All the free, easily collected loot. Valuable scrap and priceless components.It’s a scavver’s dream made reality. It seems too good to be true.

 

So it is. It is too good to be true.

 

He can't place his unease until after it all goes to shit, and it all goes to shit when their crew reaches one of the side plazas off the town center.

 

One of the Birds raises the warning with a bone-chilling scream. He had his scrap gun and hook at the ready, just in time to see the thin fuck crushed under the foot of a Behemoth. An Omnic monstrosity, an amalgamation of parts welded together in the corrupted efforts of omnic self-repair. The number of Bastion gatling guns on that thing was enough to make any hardened Junker bail out. 

 

The gold-eyed Dog is something else, though. She stands her ground, taking a fist full of grenades from her side satchel, and immediately barking out orders with all the calm air of a military commander, chucking those grenades at the bots as she does.

  
He must be something else too, because he takes two heavy steps closer to the monstrosity of red lenses, metal joints, and emotionless guns, and opens fire. 

 

The click and whir of machinery becomes deafening as more and more of the soulless monsters rise up from their bastardized sleep. One by one, waves of red light flicker on and guns of all manner of lethality find targets. The Junkers that can hear her, that make the gamble to trust her, stand and fight. Everything around him is deafening and his scrap gun is hot in his hands.

 

There's no thinking on the battlefield. No real thinking, at least. Only adrenaline working against him, the burning heat of almost deaths, split-second decisions, and reload reload reload reload … The air is thick with smoke. Heavy with mortality as Junkers he knows great their Ends. He sees many of them fight. Sees many of them fall. 

 

Corpses pile up. The unholy noise of gunfire, explosions, and death draw in the other Junker parties. The ones that don't immediately flee take up arms. 

 

Everything is burning. He feels sharp pains and dull pains tear through his flesh. His shoulder. His left side. His arms. His legs. He cannot relent. There is no stopping the apocalypse he brings. 

 

Rats scurry about the battlefield. He can see their scrawny forms dart and weave. Most of them are unarmed, setting traps, laying bait, collecting fallen Omnic bits and vanishing. 

 

Louder than thunder, louder than God, he hears laughter. It's high and endless, eldritch and free, and it spills from her mouth like blooming oleander. She's framed by fires of her own doing, soot and ash adorning her upon her throne of scrap, and her gold eyes burn even brighter. He is not the only herald of the end. He is not the only one to revel in it. 

 

How much time passes?

 

He cannot keep track of time in bullets like many of his fellows. Scrap coats the ground. He can fight for days, using the metal bits the Omnics shed. They're feeding their own destruction.

 

The gold-eyed Dog has a supply of bombs as endless as her laughter. Everything within her throwing arm’s radius is left in bits. Her work is vicious. Vicious like her laughter. 

 

“We can't keep going!” Somebody is touching him. Warm hands, warm hands - not cold. Not a bot. Gods above and below, he nearly blew the cunt’s head clean off. It's a Viper, a young one. 

 

“We've got enough scrap - we have to go.  _ Now _ .” They're begging eyes, their bloodied face. He grunts. Nods. Pushes the Viper behind him and grabs a cone full of scrap from the mess he'd made of their enemies.

 

_ Time to go.  _

 

_ Time to go whole hog.  _

 

He turns the crank. Shrapnel fires, tearing through everything before him, pushing it back as the rest of the Junkers pull back with what they can carry, with what they can grab from the junk their battle created. 

 

He moves slow. Walks backwards. He doesn't expect to get cover fire. He doesn't get cover fire. 

 

He gets the gold-eyed Dog and all the cover six bombs can provide. 

 

He looks at her as the leave the city, as they run through the streets to the rigs and bikes. She nods at him. It's a simple little motion, just the sharp downward jab of her sharp little chin, but her approval means something. It holds weight. 

 

He returns the nod slowly, uncertain, unsure. 

 

The rigs are quickly loaded up. He glances to the horizon. He can't see them, but he knows they're there. The Viper raiders were out there. Close. Now that their lot had something worth stealing …

 

“Vipers ain't stupid. They're gonna have an ambush waiting for us.” The gold-eyed Dog voices his thoughts and then some, “We even in any shape to fight?”

 

The answer is a near unanimous ‘If we gotta.’ He truthfully expected worse. He devotes some time to memorizing each and every face. These fucks are true Junkers. It’s a twisted honor to fight with them. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

 

Vipers are crafty by nature. Slick. Quiet. Everyone of their caravan is on guard, on the lookout for and sign of the raiders. Tensions are painfully high. He can feel the intensity in spite of the distance he has from the main rig. If anybody could pull off a completely expected ambush, it’d be a mess of Vipers.

 

And what an ambush it was. At least ten of their crew is downed within the first strike. The sniper in the first rig could only take out so many mines, and one of the side rigs got unlucky. Vipers in choppers pull alongside, some opening close-range fire, some jumping from their ride onto their rigs to fight hand-to-hand. His work is rough - the speed at which he’s riding makes his hook hard to aim. He gets a few good yanks in, tearing up subpar bikes in two with a launch and a pull. His injuries scream in protest. He earns more.

 

He hears the gold-eyed Dog again. Hears her laughing. Wherever she it, whatever she’s doing, she’s winning. There’s no mistaking it, something otherworldly crawls through her veins.

 

The fight ends favorably, but at a high price. There’s a great number of dead, and a hefty loss of scrap. He swore he heard the raiders sing that they’ll be waiting for their return. 

 

The caravan makes high dust and record time. They have to. Their body count is high enough as it is - the currently injured don’t need to be added to that number. The recruited medics can only do so much on a moving rig with limited supplies.

 

The hurt are carried out by their own. Roadhog is the only Hog, so there’s never anybody to receive him. Help him. If anything, it’s a small welcoming committee of Rats who are quick to get rid of the worst child they’ve ever known. But that isn’t the case today. He’s back early. Nobody expects him.

 

So he goes to collect his share, and she’s there already. The gold-eyed Dog.

 

She glances up from the Bird sorting out her share, catching sight of him instantly. Her expression shifts almost imperceptibly. She nods to him in acknowledgement. He nods back. Then she surprises him.

 

“What’s your name?” She asks.

 

“... Roadhog.” He answers slowly. He returns the compliment, “Yours?”

 

It shows on her face. Just a flash of surprise. Must have heard the rumors that he doesn’t respect anybody enough to ask for names. (It’s not much of a rumor when it’s practically truth.)

 

“Junkdog.”   
  


There’s never been a more fitting name. Junk was a common name for Dogs. A boast, usually without much credit to it - but this one … She really had a right to the name.

 

He walks with her to the market street. They don’t share words, only passive company as the crowd splits before them like the old biblical tales. She walks like a military commander combined with an empress. Sharp. Measured. Entitled, yet aptly so. It commands an instant respect from the weaker shits. They all but bow in her wake. 

 

He had planned on selling his scrap before seeing the Cross stall with the medics, but plans change. The older Rats like to tell him that this is what it is to have children. He finds, more often than not, that if it’s Hemi, he doesn’t mind.

 

The medic minding the Cross stall today is the Rat he hates the most. The black grease on her face is smeared with tiny little finger marks, and sitting next to her is Hemi, gnawing away at something plastic. He feels a smile run to his face. He feels his heart.

_  
_ Hemi sees him. He knows the boy sees him because his whole face lights up and the plastic thing, now slobbery and mangled, falls from his hands and mouth. Five sharp teeth are bared in that not-so-gummy smile, and Hemi starts grabbing at the medic Rat. His breath catches in his throat as Hemi uses her to stand on wobbly feet.

And Hemi runs.   
  
Hemi runs to him.   
  


_ To him. _   
  


Something swells up in him, choking him and his heart, bringing him to his knees. It could be instinct, or something he learned long ago that he doesn’t quite remember, but he holds out his arms for Hemi.   
  
Hemi’s tiny form crashes against him with all the force a toddler can muster, and everything feels alright. He’s fine, not bleeding, not aching. He’s fine. He wraps his arms around the little anklebiter. He feels small fingers span wide, trying to encompass as much of him as possible in what might just be the greatest hug in the world. He feels Hemi nuzzle his belly, feels the tickle of his baby-soft cowlicks, feels the wideness of his smile.

  
He feels alright.   
  
He feels good.


	6. Where You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We aren't getting a pig."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the super long wait! This was a really hard chapter to get out and get perfect, but I really like what I managed to get down here! Some great new ideas were created because of my habit of researching things and getting side-tracked. Shoutout to Seebee who helped me hash out some worldbuilding! The Spider Pits was entirely his idea. Praise him!
> 
> Also, fun fact: the new chapter titles are song titles of the songs that fit the chapters or helped me write them. This chapter was brought to you by the entirety of Moana's soundtrack.
> 
> EDIT: Fixed the ending - it's a little nicer? Also makes it easier on me to transition into the next chapter

He smells the sea. Feels the waves lap against his ankles. Feels the soft sand between his toes. Feels the sun on his face, warming him to his soul. 

His board is waxed, familiar in his hands. The ocean is having a quiet day, a mellow day. The swells are small. Easy riding. 

He's not there for the challenge. He's there to get away. 

His whaea is behind him, sitting somewhere on the shore with the grass and the car and the picnic she packed. She'd noticed (She always does) that he'd been upset. Distracted. Irritable. Unreasonable. He feels guilty for that. All she does is work, ever since she flew to Oz for a better life. 

His schoolmates had been at it again with the cruel whisperings and nasty rumors. The sheep jokes and the pig jokes and worse. He knows he isn't too bright, the teacher make that plain enough. Having every student in the whole damn building point out the same never helps. 

But here, here on the beach? Everything is fine. They can't take this away. Nobody can take this away -

 

He wakes up with a jolt, still smelling the salt of the surf. 

"Poaka?" Hemi's voice is small. He's dragged further into reality by the boy's weight in his arms, by the warmth that radiates from the tiny body. He's locked in place, eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind replaying his memories in halves. He can still hear the roar of the surf, just as he can feel Hemi scramble on top of his chest. He can still hear his whaea's humming, just as he can feel Hemi press his palms to his face. 

"Poaka? Why're you sad?" He hears Hemi say, the tyke's concerned face swimming in his vision. 

Movement comes back to him, slowly, like the trickle of a stream. 

"Sad?" He says, barely louder than a whisper. 

Hemi nods, pointing to his eyes, then to his, tracing lines down his cheeks. 

"You were crying." Hemi says, and he looks sad. Worried. He watches the boy bring his knees up and feet together as he makes his toes interlock again and again. He always fidgets when he's scared. 

He doesn't have an answer for Hemi. He doesn't really have anything. Not even a promise to reassure the skittish brat with. Instead, he pulls the anklebiter close, close enough so the tyke can feel his heartbeat, strong within his chest. 

"... 'm fine." He grunts, sitting up, "Just a dream." A little lie. Hemi won't notice. He's too young. 

He breaths deep and slow, focusing on the now. Hemi sits on his belly, in his arms. He's starting to fidget with more than just his ridiculously dexterous toes, a sign of restlessness. He won't sit still for much longer. If he keeps holding the lil' shit, he's gonna end up kicked in the gut (or worse) by the squirming. 

"Okay, okay -" He huffs, letting the brat go. Hemi hums and scrambles off, bouncing up and down. He's not talking his ear off yet or getting into what he shouldn't. Small miracles. 

"We're goin' to the market." He announces. Hemi stops, turns around slowly. Dramatically. His mouth falls open into a perfect little 'o' and his eyes sparkle with stars. Little rat lives for that hectic colorful mess. 

"After brekkie." He says immediately, before the wild brat can run out the door without him. Hemi groans and over-dramatically flops to the dirt floor, limbs spread like an annoying little starfish, knowing there's absolutely nothing left to eat but cold canned beans. 

"Quit being a shit." He scowls, popping open a can of black beans. He drops a spoon into the tin and gives it a few swirls, mixing the sludge and congealed oils until it looks slightly more appetizing. He has a generous spoonful. Not spoiled, but definitely unenjoyable. Good enough. 

He loads up another spoonful. He holds it out. He knows Hemi sees it, looming only a short ways above his face. It is perfectly aligned in such a way that, if he so chose to flip the spoon, the beans would plop right on Hemi's freckled cheeks and pursed mouth. A weak threat. An empty threat. 

It works every time. 

Hemi moans. He grumbles. He whines. But he pulls himself up and clumsily takes the spoonful and horks it down. After the first spoonful comes another, then a third, fourth, and fifth. After that, Hemi tries to insist that he's full. He knows the boy is lying, Hemi hasn't had a meal that's filled him since he finished growing his baby teeth. He lets it go, though. He needs his strength too. 

He gets to finish his beans in relative peace. Hemi's humming, as he's prone to. He supposes it must have the untreatable side-effect of his influence and his (whaea's) songs. 

"C'mon Poaka!" Hemi chirps, riddled with glee, leaping up when he caught sight of him reaching for the infamous pig mask, "Market!"

Hemi's hand is so small. It can't even fit around half of his index finger. He is too great and Hemi is too small. His hand is dwarfed a dozen times over. The emotions that Hemi's eager hand in his, pulling him along, draws forth. In Mako. In Roadhog. In him.

"Sparklers?" Hemi's eyes too big and too bright, fixed on him. They aren't even two steps out the door of their tiny hovel.

"Stay out of trouble." He says. It's not an answer at all, but to Hemi it is. Blossoming little pyromaniac, he is. As if he was going to actively enable that road to destruction. No. Old Diggerrat nearly lost an eye and a few fingers. He lost four inches of hair, singed and brittle. There can't be a repeat of last time if there's no fireworks. 

"Be on me best behavior!" Hemi sings, beaming with a smile peppered with missing baby teeth. 

Hemi starts swinging from his arm at some point, never stopping his chattering. Some days he misses when Hemi couldn't talk. One day he just decided to start, found he liked it, and never stopped. Damn kid. The endless talking feels up the silence thought, suffocates it out. He can't be left alone to his thoughts for very long if Hemi's there, chattering away. He's a very good distraction. He likes to make up titles and stories for everybody he sees. Brat's uncannily good at telling Guilds apart. His stories are childish and ridiculous and fill Mako with soft smiles and barely heard laughter. 

"That one over there? See 'im Poaka?" Hemi gestures towards some idiot about to step into a pen with a wild irradiated boar. 

"Yeah." He says, voice dry. He's watching. Hemi is too, watching casually as he swings back and forth from his hand. 

"He's gonna get hurt, but s' okay. He like it. Likes fighting." Hemi lets go of his hand, dropping to the dirt gracelessly. He watches as the boy leaps to his feet and puffs out his chest in a fair imitation of the pig-wrestling wanker. Right down to the limping strut. 

"They call 'im Battlersnake an' he's bad at everythin'." Hemi says, very matter-of-fact, "S' why they put 'in on the Animal Crew. To find the nice ones."

He looks over at the idiot in the boar pen. Wanker nearly gets impaled on tusks half the size of his forearm. The boar in there is twice his size. He shakes his head. The re-domestication effort had worked so far on some of the mutated livestock, but it'll never work on the boars. Too big, too wild, too mean. 

"Sounds about right." He says. 

"Poaka? Poaka!" Hemi pulls on his hand, a horribly familiar lit to his voice. That's his _idea voice_ and it's never a good sign. 

"Yeah?" Best acknowledge it. Hemi won't stop. He never lets anything go. 

And he's looking up, too big, too bright eyes filled with stars ( _he's never seen the stars before, only in the books Mako's read to him, or the songs he's sung_ ). There's wonder in his voice when he speaks. What he says almost doesn't register. 

"We aren't getting a pig."

Hemi's face falls, not into sadness, but into confusion. 

"Why?" He says. 

Behind Roadhog's mask, he scowls.

"Too big." He settles on what he hopes is enough of an answer. 

Hemi narrows his eyes. Brows furrowed, tongue peeking out from one of his gaps, he regards the creature in the pen. 

"... 's smaller than you." He says after a spell. He's not wrong either. It is smaller than him - but not by much, which in itself is terrifying enough.

"C'mon. We've got things to get." He grumbles, ushering the little shit away. He expects a fight. At least a little protest. He gets nothing, which is far more concerning. Hemi never lets anything go. 

The market is bustling, loud and full with people eager to jump on the newest shipments from the coastal pirates, the Suits paltry aid, and the mad cunts of the Kelly Team brought new spoils. For the first time in a long time, the market seems full and stocked. It’s regarded as some sort of miracle by the superstitious Junkers. He hears them whisper, shout, and talk about it as he and Hemi make their way from booth to booth. The volunteer efforts have finally paid off, they say. The bloody bastards are finally gone, they say. He knows they’re wrong. Even if the Raider Dogs are truly gone, another group of raiders will come to fill their void. Junkertown’s the biggest Junker city. It has the most, does the best. It’s the ultimate prize.

Hemi rocks back and forth, ball to heel, ball to heel, as he barters scrap for food. For medicine. For blankets and clothes and maybe a few small things that catch Hemi’s eye and keep his mind occupied. The rubix cube the Rats gave him for his fifth birthday has been a godsend, and there are always small little puzzles at Dusthawk’s little booth of oddities.  
This time, he has enough to get Hemi something special. 

“It’s a puzzle box.” Dusthawk grins impishly, pushing the small wooden box forth on the table. “Kelly Team brought it in. Nobody’s solved it yet.”

They look at Hemi and wink. “Maybe you’ll be the first, yeah?” 

Hemi stares at the box with complete wonderment, tongue peeking out of one of his gaps. The decision then is easy.

“... We‘ll take it.”

They take a break under the shade of the patchwork awnings near the Spider Pits. Hemi tries several times to edge away, to watch the bloody gambling sport of the tethered Junker youth. Little shit still thinks spiders are the most fantastic creatures to ever scuttle across the irradiated bush. Little shit thinks that about all animals. Must be a kid thing. Damn half-wild anklebiter.

“Poaka! Poaka! Tha’ one ‘s got a scorpion!” Hemi’s tiny little hands push and tug at him. Gleeful innocent excitement is written all over his face. 

“No going near the Spider Pits.” Bloody fucking spiders. Always in rooms. Annoying, and now easily the size of his fists. Hemi scoots closer towards the Pits, eyes fixed on him. He huffs. “Or the bloody scorpion.” 

A tentative glance, back and forth. “Or any other mutated bug.” He adds firmly. Hemi groans. Loudly. Overdramatically, as one does, and flops down, limbs spread out like a starfish a short distance away, deliberately out of reach like a proper little shit. He’ll probably pass out like that and have to be carried home.

“Roadhog.”

He looks up, sees a woman shadowed by the sun at her back. He knows the posture well - proud shoulders, head held high and predatory.

“Junkdog.”

Courtesy deserved, courtesy returned. 

He gold eyes flick over to Hemi, sprawled on the dust. He swears he sees them soften. Swears they burn gentler. Sadder. 

“You’re strong.” She says. It catches him off guard. She sits, a knee pulled to her to rest her arm. Her eyes haven’t left Hemi. He gets the distinct impression that there’s something more that she wants to say, but is holding back. Instead …

“How old is he?” She asks. 

He balks at that. The idle concern doesn’t fit her. He never took her for anything more than a golden-eyed Junker. She’s just supposed to be a monster. But then again, the same applies to him.

“He’s six.”

Junkdog’s eyes fall from Hemi, then to the ground. 

“Yes. You’re very strong.” She says. He pretends he doesn’t notice how her voice wavers. “To get attached.”

He doesn’t dare say a word. He’s not sure what’s stopping him, but he knows that he must let Junkdog continue. 

“Had two kids myself.” She says. He watches her hands curl into fists. Watches as her scarred knuckles turn white and shake with withheld emotions. She looks at him - looks through the dark glass eyes of his mask and into his eyes. “Lost ‘em both.”

“ … ‘m sorry.” He says. It sound empty and weak.

“Radiation sickness.” The words drip from Junkdog’s tongue like thick venom. Her anguish is palpable, “It’s bad for adults, but it’s murder for the little ones.”

Anger and grief, that’s what deepens her scars and pulls the permanent sneer on her face down. She speaks, and sounds so far away, “They just … wither away. Before they even have a chance.”

He finally understands. The realization is painful. 

Hemi -

There’s a scream. Explosions and gunfire. Dust rises and runs thick as the rushing crowd, taking up their weapons and rage, running to protect what little they have. Junkdog is on her feet, grenades at the ready in her hands. All traces of softness, of emotions have left her. She’s dangerous now. Her mask is on - eyes glowing vicious and gold as her eldritch blood urges her to the fight.

He whips around and finds nothing. The Spider Pits are empty - the gamblers rushing to arms with war cries in their chests. There are no small anklebiters in sight.

 

Hemi isn’t _there._

That.  
Absolute.  
Bloody.  
Fucking.  
Shit. 

Blood pounds in his ears, set in time with the drums of war. Everything that makes him - blood and sinew, Roadhog and Mako, is racing at unfathomable speeds. His heart thunders in his chest, beating in rhythm with the gunfire and screaming. He must find Hemi. Hemi _must_ be okay. Mako will die otherwise, and Roadhog is not strong enough to stand alone. 

He won't end up like Junkdog.

This is not the end of his story, nor is it the end of Hemi's. Slow breaths, calm breathing. He inhales with a one-two-three and exhales with a five-four-six. He must remain calm and rational. A mind clouded by emotions - by fear and rage - can do nothing substantial. Nothing good. He breaths deep and slow, shoving everything but his base instincts out the metaphorical window. 

It will be okay.  
He will find Hemi.  
He will bring his boy home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought this was gonna be a happy story,  
> you haven't been paying attention


	7. Run to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fear is eating him alive. It starts with his heart. Bite by bite. Soon he'll be gone, won't he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently trying to decide which Rat headcanons I'm going to use for this fic. May the gods have mercy on your poor, poor souls.
> 
> The more I listened to it, the more Pentatonix's "Run to You" seemed to fit Roadhog. Do what you will with this information.

The fear sits in his belly. It pulls him through the earth into a cavern of muffled sounds and muted smells. Everything around him moves too fast and he moves too slow. He barely moves at all. He sits and waits as the fear savors his heart, bite by bite. Greesy claws and dripping maws loom over him, digging into his shoulders and sending shivers down his spine. He took his mask off because he couldn’t breathe. He still can’t.

There is blood on his hands. It’s cold now, sticky. When it was warm and wet, it dripped and dripped down onto the floor of the Den. Only some of it came from the heads he smashed in. Not enough of it came from the heads he smashed in, from the filth he brutalized. They deserved it - deserved it. They deserve so much more than the modicum he dealt out. They must pay. Roadhog will Make. Them. Pay. Each of those Dogs that attacked the market - he’ll come for them.

He will bring them pain. He will bring them the apocalypse. They deserve that, for what they have done.

_You are strong … for getting attached._

It it that? He feels weak and helpless. He doesn’t at all feel strong right now, with fear consuming him, piece by piece. It’s Roadhog’s rage - that’s what is keeping him together, and only barely. He knows firsthand that anger can only fuel one for so long.

He never realized just how important Hemi was to him. Guess he finally accepted his parent status, somewhere along the way. He hopes this isn’t where it ends. He worries. He fears. He’ll die if this is where it ends.

What was the bloody fucking point of attacking the market? Of burning it to the fucking ground? Why would raiders do that? What was the point? Instead of stealing supplies, they burned them? What good does that do? Why? What was the _fucking point?_

There’s a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, and sees a familiar mousy face and a ragged sundress, stained with blood. Fresh blood. The young Rat is smiling, tiredly. Weakly. But her too big, too bright eyes are alight. 

“He’s g-gonna b-b-be f-fine.” She says. Fatigue defines her right now - her and the old cunt, his least favorite Rat had been in the Den’s special little med bay cave for hours. In the wake of the Market’s destruction, dozens were hurt. Dozens were lost. The Rats are sleepless, working in overdrive to work as many miracles as they can.

“Piecerat sent m-me out t-to g-get Yakkarat.” He knows Yakkarat. A relatively young bloke, specialized in fitting Junkers with makeshift prosthetics. Mako’s heart splutters. Roadhog refuses to cry.

“You have a name yet?” He asks. This girl has been good to Hemi. Been good to him. Her strength and kindness deserve recognition. She deserves her name already.

She beams with tired pride. Even Roadhog is proud of her. She earned her name, finally.

“Duxrat.” She says. He withholds the desire to reach out, to ruffle her messy, mousy hair. She’s not a child anymore. She’s not his child. When did he get so soft? He grunts. Nods. Duxrat’s smile never fades, even as she turns and runs off to track down Yakkarat. He watches her go.

His fear shifts and turns a deep, nasty blue. It’s grief now. Yakkarat. She’s running to fetch Yakkarat. It couldn’t be saved. He failed. He couldn’t save all of Hemi. It tastes like failure. He should be happy. He should be relieved that he still has Hemi. Mako isn’t going to die. Roadhog still rides. His life, so dependent on Hemi’s existence, can continue because Hemi is still alive. The boy isn’t going to die.

But not all of him could be saved.

“Oi. Roadhog.” He’s dragged out from his thoughts by her, the main medic Rat. She’s wiping her bloody gloves clean on a rag, staring at him with a guarded expression. He meets her gaze and waits. He knows she likes to initiate conversations. He knows she prefers to talk unopposed. 

“It’s a Maori cultural thing, innit? Bein’ able to withstand pain and not cry out?” He notices her eyes flick up and down at his ta moko. He looks her in the eye, furrowed brows and confusion.

“I had a friend before all…” She waves her hand around, gesturing to the grand fuck-all, “all this shit. He was a good friend.” She shakes her head. There’s a flash of wistful smile, a ghost on her lips.

He wonders what her point is.

“Anyways,” She sighs, “Your boy. He’s a tough one. Didn’t scream or cry.” She frowns, “Asked a fuckload of questions though.”

She pockets her bloody rag, clapping her hands together. “Thought you’d like to know that. Make you proud. Maybe calm you down.”

“He’s okay.” He says, more of an affirmation towards himself than anything. Strangely enough, the medic Rat understands that.

“Ain’t gonna lie, mate.” She says, and her voice is so casual, so infuriatingly calm - how can she be so blaise? - “Your boy should have died. To be quite honest, he should have died a long time ago.”

So Junkdog was right.

“Radiation?” He stares into her eyes. He needs this answer. He needs to know. 

“That and more. Anklebiters - the new Oz ain’t kind to them.” She says, suddenly so somber and so tired and so _old,_ and that’s enough for him. It might even be too much for him. Hemi is alive, he should have died but he hasn’t. Yet. He still could. That is what hurts the most. That is what will eat him up inside until Mako and Roadhog are nothing more than shells, operating on the bare basics of human emotion.

Raising Hemi has spoiled him. Has made him soft and vulnerable. Oh so very vulnerable.

“Well. I’ve got other patients to see, more people dying and all. It’s fairly inconvenient.” She says, cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders, “He needs his rest, but he needs you more. So you and Yakkarat are the only two allowed in there, got it?”

He nods. She nods back and begins to walk off. Her footsteps are quick and sharp, even on the packed dirt floor they echo through the Den’s tunnels. He speaks up, catches her before she leaves the hallway entirely. This is important. 

“What’s your name?” His voice feels hollow. It hurts and rasps, but he needs to know. This is respect long overdue.

“Piecerat.” She says. He’s thankful for her straight face, for her emotionless professionalism. He’s in too frail a state for her barbs and jokes and volatile temper.

“Thank you, Piecerat.” He says, and his words are less hollow, more ragged. There’s too much emotion behind them. Mako feels the beginnings of tears rise within him. Roadhog’s adamant refusal to cry is wavering. Failing.

“You’re welcome.” Piecerat says, calmly, almost kindly, and she turns the corner, she leaves.

She’s gone, and the tunnel hall is empty. He’s faced with the door just a ways up - just a simple wooden thing that only barely fits in it’s ramshackle frame. He’s afraid. How can he face his son?

His feet move to the slow, steady beat of Mako’s heart. Roadhog opens the door. All of him stands before his son, lying weak and pale on the makeshift bed. Of course, Hemi smiles. He never not has the energy to smile.

“Poaka!”

He avoids looking the bloody bandages, elevated on neatly folded blankets. He’s not ready for that. Instead his eyes meet Hemi’s face. It’s pale. Half-wiped away blood flecks on his cheeks. But his too big, too bright eyes shine like the sun and stars like they always do.

“Heard you were brave. Didn’t cry.” He says, so gently, so gently. He tries to smile, and finds that even though it’s hard, he still can. 

“Heard you fought th’ bad guys with th’ piggies!” Hemi chirps and he frowns at that. He barely remembered that. He knew he hooked the boar pens, ripped the damn gate off. He didn’t know he actually fought with them. Too caught up in the bloodlust and rage. Too caught up in the moment, in the fight. That would explain the bristly fur on his pants and leathers.

“Don’t cry Poaka. ‘M okay.” Hemi says, reaching up with bandaged palms. His tiny hands are on his stubbled cheeks, and everything falls so clearly into place. Worry strikes Hemi’s face and the moment of peace is gone.

“What-” He chokes back fear.

“Not gonna become ‘n Omnic, right? With the bot parts?” Genuine fear colors the boy’s face in dangerous shades of white. He can’t help himself, not the soft smile or the gentle chuckle that leaves his lips. Hemi’s face falls into a pout, inspiring more laughter in him, in Mako, in Roadhog.

“No.” One giant hand ghosts over Hemi’s fluttering heart. He taps the spot lightly, “You can’t be an Omnic so long as you got that.”

“M’ heart?” Hemi’s voice is so small.

He presses his nose and forehead to Hemi’s, smiling. He’s so thankful that he’s okay.

“That’s right.”


	8. Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To have something to come back to, he has to leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too fond of this chapter but I want to get this story to Point B

"Remember what Yakka and Piece said." He fixes Hemi with a half-masked glare. He hopes it's stern enough to make the boy listen. The metal port is fresh, the skin red, swollen, irritated, and vulnerable. He refuses to leave anything to chance. Until Piecerat gives the word, Hemi stays inside, stays safe. The brat is going stir-crazy, but he can't get very far if he tried. A week doesn't fix dire blood loss and a missing limb. 

He still pointedly refuses to look at it any more than he has to. He cleans the area where the flesh meets metal. He wraps it all up. He keeps Hemi from messing with it. Beyond that, he never looks down. He prays that Hemi hasn't noticed. Prays that Hemi won't notice. 

"Yes Poaka." The brat grumbles, his one remaining knee tucked under his chin, arms wrapped tight around it. 

"Be back soon enough." He says, grabbing his hook from its place on the wall, "Shouldn't take too long. Stay out of trouble."

He hears a grumble. It sounds like _"Trouble? Can't even move."_ and even Roadhog feels the pang in his heart. 

"I'll be good." Hemi says, his voice soft, "Promise."

He leaves then, shutting the door behind him. As he lumbers through the thinning streets, he watches the taupe skies grow dark and the strings of lanterns and fairy lights come alive. Some of the moon can be seen in the ever-clouded sky. It's a pale yellow disk of sickly light. He hates full moons. 

The Dust Council is mostly gathered, the bonfire already lit by Dusthawk, of all people. Should be interesting, then. Dusthawk, like her booth, is a mess of puzzles and oddities. 

"I'd like to address a number of things before we open the floor..." She says, the lit of her accent making her words sharper. The contrast made with her gentle merchant smile is unnerving. Like silk hiding steel. 

"First!" She raises one finger, circling the bonfire for all to take her in, "The Raiders at our door!"

A loud roar of agreement rises up with the embers. Everyone, it seems, had lost something to those cunts. The days were numbered now. 

"Second!" She raises two fingers, circling the fire again, "We lost our market! We lost nearly everything!"

Nobody enjoys being reminded. 

"Third!" She says, and her eyes are steely as she walks about the fire, three fingers in the air, "Enforcers!"

Murmurs spread throughout the crowd. There's the half-muted sounds of a hundred voices speaking all at once. _Enforcers?_

"The floor is open!" Dusthawk announces, stepping back into the crowd. 

"Those bloody cunts've been stealin' th' cattle!" Some Cat from the Animal Crew shouts out, standing up and moving towards the center. 

"Who fuckin' cares, mate? Those fucks have been targeting the greenhouses for months - before your stupid little animal project even started!" A Spider hisses, standing up and marching towards the center to meet the Cat.

He pays no mind to either. He's too absorbed in his own internal conflict. All this talk only reminds him of his boy. His boy, sitting alone at home, rereading all his books for the hundredth time, missing a good piece of him because of those twice-bleeding wanker Dogs. It hasn't been very long, only a week, but for Roadhog? That's far too long a wait. Everything he is sings for violent revenge. For absolute satisfaction. 

He's not even paying attention. The world around him, blurred out by his focus. Years of Hemi's bullshit has him trained like some prized mutt. In one hand he holds the Spider by the straps of his harness. In the other hand he holds the Cat by the scruff of his ratty old vest. Because of his vast size and sheer power, neither can do much to fight back. They can't even fight to get free. Instead shame burns on their faces as the squirm. 

Roadhog hides a chuckle. They're pathetic. 

"You ain't five. Fight later." He growls, like he always growls when Hemi's smart mouth earns him trouble from older brats. Then he tosses both the grown fucks in opposite directions. A few crazy shits decide to clap. He even hears a whistle, loud, shrill, and appreciative. 

"We can't get back what we lost!" 

He knows that voice. Knows that commanding tone. The fire dances off Junkdog's scars. She looks wicked. Unhinged. 

"We can never get those things back!" 

The people in the crowd part for her, like obedient servants before a queen. Like worshippers before a god. She stands so tall and proud, just shy of inhumanity in her presence, but he know something intimate about her now. He sees her as she really is - strong, but brittle. 

"We must move past this." She shouts, meeting the motley gaze of her audience, "We must fight."

This is a practiced speech. One she has given to herself several times, to every reflective surface that had the time to sparkle. He's familiar with the tone. With the need. With the habit. 

"So get up!" She shouts, and the grin that steals her features is something truly savage, "C'mon you cunts! We've got work to do."

He feels miles away. He watches the shadows the bonefire cast dance across Junkdog's scars. Her voice reverberates throughout the crowd, collecting murmurs of agreement and nods of solidarity. It's uncanny, how much power she holds right now, all because she's too damn good at stirring up a crowd. She's right this time. As she speaks, as she captures the crowd, he listens. He watches. 

The counterattack is planned within the hour. They all agreed. They leave at dawn. The bonefire is doused with sand. The council breaks and parts, leaving a tense air of wound anticipation to spread throughout Junkertown. Some leave to prepare. Some leave to rest. 

He leaves to tell Hemi. It does not go well. 

Tears streak down his boy's face. Even in the dark he can see the tracks they leave, how they glisten in the low light of their little red lanturn. Something, some feeling sits low in his belly and begins to feast on his insides. It's an unrecognizable feeling. All he knows about it is that it hurts.

"Poaka - Poaka - gotta promise t'- t' come back."

Hemi shakes in his arms, like he's cold, like he's terrified. 

"Always came back before." He rumbles, his giant hands feeling too clumsy, too unwieldy to hold something as delicate and good as Hemi. He holds his child anyways, because right now Hemi needs him. Right now, he needs Hemi too. 

"S' diff'rnt." Hemi sniffles, tiny fingers closing around the metal loops on his leathers, as if he can hold Roadhog down. 

"Is it?" He says. Hemi nods, a barely-there motion, just a small dip of his chin. 

For a long time, they just sit in silence. He's the one to break it.

"Promise you," He begins, and his voice is raw, "I promise, Hemi. I'll be okay and I'll come back-"

He makes the mistake of meeting Hemi's eyes. Something, his will perhaps, crumbles. He moves quickly, cupping Hemi's face to his own, pressing his nose and forehead to Hemi's. 

"I'll come back and I'll never leave you again."

He's positive that if he stepped forward for the position of Enforcer, there would be several Junkers who'd vouch for him. 

"An' then we get a piggy?" Hemi tries to smile, the cheeky shit, but it comes out more tired, more afraid. He sighs. He knew it. Hemi never lets anything go. 

"What did I say before?" He growls, knowing full well that Hemi wouldn't be able to remember something he said days ago.

"Please?" Hemi presses. There's no weight to it, no real want. The kid is just tired, scared, and wants to fill the silence with something else. He'll never understand that aversion to silence. 

"Why pigs?" He finally asks. 

"You like piggies more than spiders." Hemi says with the utmost seriousness. It has him, Mako, Roadhog even, in stitches. The great belly laugh that rolls out of him seems to offend the little 'roo, face screwed into one of his pouts. 

"True."

He sings for Hemi then. Holding the brat close enough to feel the quivering heart beneath the tiny rib cage, he sings every song he knows until Hemi finds sleep. He isn't tired, not even a bit, and so he stays up. He stays up with his son in his arms, softly dining every song he knows to make sure that there's only the softest of dreams. 

And come the early morning light, he leaves for the last time.

He promised.


	9. E Rere Taku Poi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's thirty.  
> He has a child. His child is seven now.  
> Where did the time go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont do academia mates its worse than drugs

Hemi's first steps on his prosthetic are shakey and uneven. He trips over the fake foot over a dozen times, and with each fall, each new coat of grit on his face, his cheeks flush a deeper shade of shame. It's painful to watch - something he wished he could have avoided. It's been months now. Months, and he still can't bring himself to look at his son's legs.

"Hemi-"

"Hate it." Hemi says, choking back tears. It's not the first time the boy's cried over his perceived weakness, over his inability to walk. This is just the first time he hasn't bothered to hide it. That in itself is heartbreaking.

( _this is your fault_ he is reminded once more)

He gathers up his boy. The touch of metal is unnerving to him. He flinches. He knows it just makes Hemi feel worse.

"Metal's warmer than expected." He speaks the lie. Maybe Hemi will accept it, and not take his mistakes to heart. Hundreds of Junkers have missing limbs. Prosthetics are more normal here and now than they'd been before the Crisis.

"Can't do it. Too hard." Hemi chokes out the words, tiny face buried in his chest. He hears those words echo in his rib cage. He feels those words constrict his heart.

"S' only your first try." He starts. He tries to reason, but Hemi shakes his head sharply. Violently. His tears glitter in the morning light, but the prominent emotion written on his face is anger. Anger and shame.

A low growl rumbles through him, leaking out like a low hiss. Hemi knows he won't abide quitters, and this has never been an issue before. He'll be damned before it becomes one. He spares a glance, the briefest of looks. Hemi's prosthetic is a simple metal thing, rusted in more than a few places, curved like a crooked c. He had watched Yakkarat hammer the thing into shape. He had watched Yakkarat attempt to streamline the design, make it as durable as it could be with the weight limit a child could support.

"Make your own then." He grunts coldly. If the brat is going to quit so easily, going to be ungrateful -

He had pointedly ignored the little shit for the rest of the day. A deserved little punishment, because he knows Hemi knows better than to quit so easily. He'd barely given the prosthetic a fair go. Hemi hadn't spoken again, glaring at him for a bit before sadly crawling up in a corner, hated prosthetic callously tossed aside. He read that old chemistry book, the one he'd scavenged years ago and never did trade it to the Rats. Ultimately a mistake, considering Hemi's fascination with explosives, but it's too late. The damn thing is Hemi's favorite book.

Not a word is spoken all day. They fall asleep as they always do. Him, upon the soft nest of blankets and pillows, and Hemi curled up in his arms.

Come morning, though, Hemi is gone. His prosthetic remains. It's a mystery how the brat had escaped him. He can't have gotten far, yet there are mess of tracks in the dust outside their door. He has no idea where Hemi had vanished to. He has no idea where Hemi could be. Within moments his heart is racing, ensnared by the looming fear that had never truly left him, not since that night in the Den's med-wing hall when it first manifested to spell out each of his flaws and each of his sins.

He forces himself to breath. Hemi is six. He's an excessively friendly, exceptionally quick six year old with a number of friends, cohorts, and hideaways. He'd spent all the day before sulking. Running off to hide and hate him in some nook in Junkertown is fine. He'll be back. He'll be fine.

Hemi is gone for two entire days before he all but kicks the door open, an absolute shit-eating grin on his tiny face.

He wants to respond with cold anger for making him worry. He wants to respond like a good parent should, but everything drains out of him. He's too caught up in the sight of his boy - beaming face smeared with grease, too big too bright eyes shadowed by sparse sleep- standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips like a damn hero.

"Poaka look! I made it!" Hemi chirps, "See? Jus' like you told me to! Look look look!!" He screws his face up into mock-seriousness, his voice pitched lower in a mockery of his own voice - "Make your own then!"

He sticks out his childishly crafted prosthetic, just a tad too short for him. It's a peg leg. Hemi made himself a peg leg. Just like he'd told him to.

"An' I did it!"

"You..." He trails off, watching the boy wave his leg at the metal joint. Had he really?

"H-Hemi! I t-told you t-to wait up!" Duxrat's thin chest is heaving, her breathing ragged. She looks up at him, and shrinks.

"S-sorry R-Roadhog... I meant t-to tell y-you b-but I c-couldn't l-leave h-him alone in the w-workshop." She laughs awkwardly, running a nervous hand through her mousy hair.

"M' a Rat after all!" Hemi's smile is impossibly wide.

He doesn't know what to do. He mind is a mess of feelings - anger, relief, surprise, pride- and he's not wearing his mask, so it's all exposed for everyone to see and ...

He finds himself falling slowly to his knees. He holds out his hand, and Hemi understands him well enough. A tiny hand finds stabilization in his, and Hemi raises his prosthetic leg for him to inspect. He runs a thumb over the soldering, messy, uneven, crooked and thick. He feels the burns that mark Hemi's hand. He doesn't know what the right thing to say is. Fucking hell. He's been in knots ever since Hemi's accident. What's the right thing to say? What's the right thing to do? He can't make any more mistakes, can't afford any mistakes-

"You're a Rat alright." He hums, running his thumb over the soldering one last time before letting the leg fall free.

"Good job."

* * *

 

As some sort of compensation for taking the Enforcer position, he's given a new home. This one's closer to the concrete-and-metal walls they're building around Junkertown. An added measure they all agreed on.

It's a nice place. Sturdy concrete with an actual floor, not packed earth, with decent neighbors above, below, and next to them. Their crowded block of homes closest to the greenhouses and the good majority of their neighbors are farmers or part of the Animal Crew.

Hemi farther away from the Guild of Rats now, farther from the people he's known his whole life, but he takes the change in stride. Everything is filled with wonder to a six-year-old.

He doesn't know who or what to thank for the fact that every day Hemi gets to see the color green.

* * *

 

Their upstairs neighbor is a single mother and an Enforcer too. She has a daughter a tad older then Hemi, and the two make a chaotic pair of friends.

He worries. _Like mother, like daughter_ is a common phrase applied to the duo above them. He worries because with a title like _Magpie_ , he can only speculate what kind of viciousness runs in her rosy-cheeked daughter.

* * *

 

Hemi is a Rat, through and through. His success with his prosthetic had given him confidence, had done something akin to flipping a switch in the boy. Not a day goes by when he's cheeks are free of grease smudges and his hands aren't unoccupied with small bits of scrap, tinkerer's tools, and bandages. He's a bright one - absentminded, stubborn, prone to at least half a dozen accidents before noon - with an astounding amount of promise. At least that's what some of the Rats say, singing Hemi's praises.

To him, it's a mixed bag.

Hemi's standing before him, engulfed by the shadow he casts with his back towards the setting sun. Unlike most cunts he's had to set right, Hemi is not afraid. Unlike most cunts though, Hemi looks contrite. Too big, too bright eyes see right through him, see his conflicted, messy soul.

There's a great deal of shouting and yelling. Hemi's little stunt had drawn a sizable crowd, most of them outraged or worse. Some of the wankers had a point. It was a waste of supplies. It was a waste of time. It was excessively dangerous, especially for a nameless child.

(There's a part of him, a small, not-so-detached part of him that steps back to wonder and marvel. It's been nearly eight years since their world ended. Eight years, and they'd pulled themselves back together again. Eight years, and somewhere along the way, they'd learned to care again. If this shit had happened even two years prior, no other Junker would've batted an eye.)

Time to do his damn job.

"Piss off." He doesn't have to raise his voice very high for the squabbling crowd to hear him and listen. They all disperse quick enough, leaving him, Hemi, and a few stragglers pretending that they're minding their own business left in the open square.

Hemi is fidgeting quietly, hesitant to meet his gaze.

"They have a point." He says, lowering himself to one of his knees to be closer to the little 'roo, "Supplies are tight."

"I know, Poaka." Hemi says in a small voice, “Jus’ wanted to help. Wanted to make people happy… Sorry I wasted stuff.”

Hemi's breathing catches and tears begin to rise up and spill over. He's hit by a memory. His whaea’s words echo in his heart, _Nothing done for a smile is ever a waste._

“Nothing done for a smile is ever a waste, Hemi.” He says, setting a hand on the boy's shoulder, careful to avoid the red, irritated burns, “Don’t cry. It was beautiful. Thank you.”

Too big, too bright eyes, glistening with tears, stare up at him. There are stars in those eyes. Beautiful stars.

"Really?"

He nods sagely, patting Hemi's messy hair. Even filthy with grit and grease, it's still the softest thing in Oz. The little Rat ... he'd done some incredible work. How long has it been since he'd seen fireworks? Seen their colors and felt their light?

"Lets go get some burn medicine from Piecerat." He says, lifting Hemi up and setting the boy on his shoulders.

"'Kay."

"Don't think you aren't in trouble." He says, and he is glad for his mask, glad that it hides his face and hides his grin, "You're cleaning the razorback pen."

Hemi's whining is near sreech levels. He grins, wider, and lets a small chuckle.

"For a _week_."

* * *

 

He doesn't mind the Enforcer position as much as he'd anticipated. It's decent pay for dull work. It mostly feels like days spent walking. Being an intimidating deterrent, sure, but at the end of the day, it still feels like nothing.

He's close to Hemi. That's what matters. He made a promise to never leave, and so he won't. He gets paid to watch the city. Gets paid to keep the fights small and contained and ultimately harmless. Gets paid to, on occasion, stroll past the Cross booth every now and then to see the newest little apprentice the medic Rats have taken under their wings.

Piece keeps Hemi busy. He always comes back to him each day, eagerly yapping on about something new that he learned, or somebody interesting that he helped. It's not the most glamorous job. There's seldom any glory. But Hemi is like Mako was - he lives to be helpful.

He's thankful. Being a medic is safer than most any other profession in the bush, and Hemi's taken to the job as well as any small child can.

As he passes by the Cross booth, Hemi drops the metal canister he'd been fiddling with to cheer and wave. He knows better than to rush over for a hug when he's at work, but it's easy to tell that it's a hard impulse to reign in.

Hemi is a good kid. He sits nicely by Piece all day and saves his excess energy for him and the pigs come dusk.

Their new home is luxurious compared to the scrap of land they inhabited before. It's farther from the Guild of Rats, but it's big enough to accommodate a little workshop of Hemi's own, complete with a mismatched tool set and a hearty pile of scrap. The minute he opens the door, Hemi leaps from his shoulders with a shout of glee and dashes over to his little table. He returns to him in a few minutes with a scribbled recipe.

"Poaka!" Hemi holds out the scribbles with both hands raised high. He's even standing on his tip-toes in an effort to be taller. Must really be excited.

"What's this?" He squints. Reading Hemi's handwriting is one big chore.

Hemi puffs out his thin chest as if he was invincible, a dazzling crooked smile on his face, "Hemi's super secret healing recipe! Hogdrogen!"

He raises an eyebrow to that - not the Hemi could see, his mask was still very much in place. (But somehow Hemi had an uncanny ability to know what face he wore behind his mask anyway.) Hemi senses his skepticism, and launches into a long, excessively fast-paced explaination. Everything - how it works, what's in it, how it's administered - all explained with the finesse of a seven-year-old.

A seven-year-old prodigy, but still.

"Clever Rat, ain'tchu?" He removes his mask, hanging it from the nail over his modest cot. He makes sure that Hemi catches the small smile he wears. Hemi basks in the praise, smile wide and bright.

"S' what everyone else says!" Hemi giggles, preening with his head held up high. It doesn't last too long; Hemi's too much of a giggly mess to be prideful.

"'M gonna be good enough t' be on the Kelly Team one day!" He says, and his too big, too bright eyes are alight.

"Oh really?" He tries to keep his tone light. Tries to ignore the stabbing pain in his heart, stirred up the the thought of his boy in such needless danger. It's a noble goal, but it's a harsh life. He never expected to worry so much over something he'd found in a dumpster, but oh how he worries. The damn brat is gonna give him a full head of white before he's fifty, he knows it. Feels it in his bones.

"Yes really!" Hemi nods sharply. His face is set in adamant stone, determination pure and boundless carved into his features.

He moves slowly, but with purpose, pressing his nose and forehead to Hemi's. His whaea always said there was a special type of magic in the hongi. Sometimes, he thinks he can feel that.

It feels nice.

* * *

 

He's thirty.  
He has a child. His child is seven now.  
Where did the time go?


	10. Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ready or not, the world is unforgiving  
> and change will come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished my first thesis chapter!!!

Living is never easy. Living is a bloody struggle. This is a lesson that he'd been taught countless times over. The lesson has never once been soft, never once been kind. He learned well. If there's anything about it he doesn't understand, it would be the world's insistence on reminding him, on returning to him to reteach the harshest lesson he's ever known. 

Omnics. Red-eyed and violent, the metal monsters have been sighted not far from Junkertown. Something had gone and stirred them up. Something had gone and set them out for blood. According to the Birds that fly through town, they move like a shambling legion, in numbers that would shake even the gold-eyes. According to the Birds, they'd ravaged everything that had the misfortune to fall in their path - no caravan or junker city stood a chance. 

There's an army on their horizon. Junkertown holds its breath. 

As an Enforcer - _captain,_ now, he's now a captain of a fucking squad, who the fuck thought he had what it takes to be a leader - he knows his place. He'll be on the front lines should the omnics draw too close. He's made his peace with that. With dying. For the most part at least. He can't help the small stabbing thoughts. The worms that eat at his resolve. The want to be selfish, to take Hemi and leave, overcomes him on occasion - but he knows that Oz is unforgiving. Life in Junkertown is a struggle, but it's nothing compared to the migrant life in the bush. He wants the best for Hemi, and deep down he knows that means eventually leaving Australia altogether. 

(He doesn't know why he's so hesitant about that.)

"They gonna come here? Poaka?" Hemi's voice is small, muffled by blankets and space. He's scared, might even be close to crying. Omnics terrify him, as they terrify any right-minded person. 

He can't answer that question. Not now. It's too late. He doesn't want to answer that question. Not now. Not ever. He doesn't want to deal with Hemi's fears. He doesn't think he's strong enough for them, to put them down, to put them to rest. 

He reaches to his left, hooks a few fingers in the hammock netting and pulls, slow and gentle. He clears his throat, begins to hum, begins to sing, as he rocks his son to sleep. Hemi is eight years old, nearly nine now. He's too old for lullabies. Too old to be rocked to sleep. Works like a charm anyways, and soon the boy's soft, even breathing is the only sound in the room that matters. 

He sits. Ruminates. The world is so quiet tonight. Junkertown is holding its breath. No soul dares to make a sound, dares to draw the grotesque metal army to their door. 

He falls into a dreamless sleep. It swallows him like the void. 

Come the morning sunlight, creeping through the cloth window curtains, you rise. His bones creak and his muscles take their time to stir. He shakes the sleep from his mind and looks towards his little rat. Hemi is still fast asleep, curled up in his hammock and bundled tightly in his blankets. He’s so small. He’s always been so small, small and in need of protection. Hemi is too good for this hellscape.

They could leave. They should leave. But even in leaving there’s a risk.

He doesn’t know what to do.

There’s a knock at the door. It pulls him from his thoughts. It’s something to thank, because he knows that dark trail, knows it intimately. He knows how long he’d have sat there on his cot, buried in grueling emotions and doubts. Ever since Hemi turned seven, thoughts of leaving have needled him constantly. The omnic threat on their borders has only intensified the dire feeling in the pit of his gut. Stand or perish. Ride or die. He does not know what is best, no matter how long he dwells on these thoughts.

“Wait a tick…” He grumbles, lumbering over to the door. He snatches his mask from it’s place and quickly dons it. He needs his facelessness today. He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to forgo the protection that the black leather mask offers him. Not today, at least.

He opens the door a crack and sees a large cardboard box half-obscuring Duxrat’s shy smile and freckled face. He relaxes, opening the door fully. Before the girl can speak, he places a finger to his mask’s snout, with a short nod in Hemi’s general direction. Duxrat’s eyes find the lump of blankets and she nods. Smiles soft and fond.

“I b-brought clothes.” She offers up the box, “H-he’s growing really f-fast.” 

“That he is.” And yet he’s still so small. 

He opens the box and sees Duxrat’s old sundress. She’d outgrown it years ago, he knew, but he hadn’t known she kept it. Thought she would have sold it for a fair bit, considering how meticulously she kept it. Even now, though faded into pastels, the yellow sundress was whole.

“He always s-said it was p-pretty.” She stammers a bit more than usual. 

He sets down the box and gingerly takes out the pale yellow dress. For Junker clothing, it’s in impeccable shape. It always had been. The only flaw is a tear in the side, by the hip, which had been patched with bright yellow canvas. It’s stitched like a smiley face, and he knows for a fact that Hemi will love it all the more for this flaw.

There is more clothing in the box more suited for a wild, growing boy. Shorts and shirts with boyish things. There’s only a few things like the dress. A only-slightly ruined frilly skirt. A pair of worn out ballet slippers. Striped tights with half a dozen holes. Then there’s practical things, like a small pocket knife. Sturdy boots. A small messenger bag with dozens of pockets. Everything in the box is deemed perfect and valuable. He holds the sundress gingerly, running his fingers over the stitching. He’s had his suspicions about his lil’ roo for a while. Maybe this will put them to rest.

“Thank you.” He says, and he means it. Everything that plagues him has left, if only for a while. The only thing that is on his mind, is the anticipation of seeing Hemi’s smile at all these new things.

Dux doesn’t stick around. She leaves quickly, with a warm but short farewell that he returns. He clears off a bit of Hemi’s little workbench and sets the box of clothes down there. Hemi will find it when he wakes up.

With a heavy sigh, he collects his things. His hook goes on his belt, his gun goes at his side. He’s got work to do. Patrols to make. Everyone is on edge, and it makes everything feel heavy. Harder to breath, like the air before a powder keg goes off. He hates it. Hates the long hours and the tense atmosphere that curls and tears at his lungs and heart.

Before he leaves, he lifts his mask and presses a kiss to Hemi’s forehead.

 

 _It will be alright,_ he tells himself. Maybe if he says it often enough, then he’ll believe it.

Hours pass, long hours in the unyielding sun. It’s growing cold and dark before he’s finally done, before he can finally return home. He passes a number of people, stocking up on necessities like ammunition and canned food. He hears them whisper about running, about getting out while they can. He hears whispers, hushed arguments. Would leaving really be worth it? In comparison to the rest of the bush, Junkertown is safe - why risk wandering? And leaving Australia altogether - then you’d have to face the suits and the reality that the Old World abandoned them all. Safer? Is it safer? Is it better?

Nobody knows, it seems.

He opens the door to their home to find Hemi already asleep, drool on his cheek and pooling on his workbench. He’s wearing the sundress and the boots.

Mako thinks it’s perfect.

“C’mon.” He grunts, lifting Hemi up in his arms. The kid stirs, bleary eyes fix upon him. A tired smile creeps across his lips.

“I like it. S’ pretty.” Hemi says.

“You’re pretty.” It slips out. He blames Mako and holds his breath.

Hemi beams.  
“Thanks Poaka.”

He carries Hemi to his cot. Cuddles the little rat close, and hums a few bars before the words begin to come forth. Hemi knows this song. His voice joins in, wobbly and shy. A few words are mispronounced. Some are mumbled and some are dropped, but Hemi sings with him and the moment is pure.

They fall asleep like that, sharing songs, warmth and love.

In the morning, pristine white hovertrucks are spotted in the distance, each marked with a pale blue symbol. A flower, maybe, or a diamond suspended over a v. They aren’t bots, but Junkertown knows better than to relax. After all, it’s not the omnics who are devils, but the men in suits who made them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so it begins  
> and so it will soon end.


	11. Build That Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gon' build that wall up to the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished my thesis! Lost weight and some hair in the process. God I hate academia.

Supplies are scarce again.

 

He grunts, watching Hemi pour over the papers on the little rat’s makeshift desk. Shakes his head at the kid’s thin, gaunt cheeks and the constant dullness of hunger in those too-big eyes. As if supplies weren’t already scarce. The omnic monstrosities on the horizon loom, an ever-present threat. The people of the white hovertrucks -  _ Vishkar _ \- sit within Junkertown’s belly, an even closer threat. He hates it. Hates the building anticipation. Hates the rising tension. But he’s under the strictest of orders. The Dust Council decided.

Vishkar stays. Their spiel had been, at least, persuasive. Promises of reliable supply trains, or radiation-lessening housing, of protection from raider groups. Of a future for the children, the far and few and precious. Their display of hardlight technology, according to the Rats, was at least impressive. 

_ Possibly a solution _ , Piecerat had admitted, her fingers tented rigidly, knuckles white and strained as her face.  _ I still don’t like it. _ _   
_

Very few had, initially. Reviews were mixed. Many spoke that night, bearing the torch and preaching about the bonfire. The tentative ruling was heard as the morning arrived. He thought of Hemi, of his lil’ roo, and of Junkdog’s words. How it was a damn miracle the brat had lived this long. How it was a miracle that Hemi lived at all. He thought of Hemi as he casted his vote, and knew of others - Magpie, Junkdog, a crafty Spider who was a father of two - who held the same fears, same pains, close to their hearts.

 

Vishkar stays.

 

_ For now. _

 

“You doin’ alright?” He hangs his hook by the door, walks over to the makeshift desk in the corner. It’s cleared of scrap, tools, and chemicals. The ordered chaos is gone, replaced by the full chaos of papers. Worksheets for math and grammar. Fuck. It’s been so long. He nearly forgot the normalcy in a child’s homework. It’s so foreign now, like remnants from a world long ended.

“No.” Hemi grumbles, the pencil falling from thin fingers to the floor, as the brat overdramatically melts in the stool. He takes a peek at worksheets. Hemi’s barely done anything, instead filling the empty margins with sketches of flowers and schematics for engines.

“Hate school.” The little blighter hisses. 

He snorts, removing his mask and setting it on the small makeshift desk. He looks at Hemi. Hemi cracks first, hissing and covering his face with his hands and kicking uselessly in the air.

“I hate it! Hate it hate it hate hate it!!!” Words devolve into angered screeching and more kicking as raw emotion pours forth from a body too small to contain it any longer. It would have been amusing, maybe, once. Now though, he’s far too attached to Hemi. Now he knows and loves and feels. 

He thought this was for the best. He really did. But Hemi’s not taking it well.

_ He’ll learn. _ A voice in his head that sounds far too much like Piecerat to be comfortable,  _ Your boy’s a sharp one. She’ll be right, give him time. _

 

He shakes it off. Avoids it. 

 

“Don’t wear your dress no more.” He says, and it’s the first thing he could think of, honestly. The first thing. A distraction, because he’s not ready to face the problem at hand. He doesn’t know how.

‘Course not!” Hemi’s voice is fire and venom, “Stupid Vishka’ school won’t let me!”

Hog starts. Jolts. Eyes wide and heart slow. Something bubbles and brews within him and it’s cold and dangerous. 

“What you mean?” He asks carefully. His voice is empty. It doesn’t betray him at all.

Hemi pulls a face as he curls up in his arms. Part of him (Mako) marvels at how much Hemi’s grown. At how, still even after years, Hemi is small enough to be safe in his arms, to be held so perfectly and naturally.

“They all say it’s old and worn and not at all proper.” Hemi spits, “But I know what they really mean.”

Hemi doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t really have to. Neither Hog nor Mako were particularly clever, but he is more than capable enough to put two and two together. The sum is one that sets him boiling. He’s madder than a cut snake, but the words won’t come to his tongue. What does he say? What can he say?

 

It’s all lost.

They sit a silence only broken scarcely by Hemi ranting about how he hates the Vishkar’s school. How the worksheets are too easy. How his classmates are too slow. How he’s always bored but he gets in trouble for not doing as he’s told, but he was done! What was he supposed to do? 

Distract. That’s what he can do.   
  
He grunts and stands, Hemi still in his arms. The kid yelps, thin fingers scrambling for purchase, as if he’d ever drop the boy. ( _ Never. Never, ever. _ ) He shifts Hemi over to his right arm and grabs his mask.   
  
“C’mon.” He says, donning his mask and taking up his hook, “We’re goin’ to see the pigs.”

Hemi’s eyes, too big, too bright, rise up to meet his behind the dark glass lenses. The kid’s expression is so open, true and genuine surprise and glee. “Really?” 

“... ‘course.” He says, “Could do with a break.”

The streets of Junkertown have changed. The market street never quite recovered from the bombing, never quite blooming into the bustling, colorful hub that it once was. No matter how many of his Enforcers patrol it’s length, it will never be as free as it once was. The scars of trust betrayed scar the people as well as the land.

Vishkar’s made its changes as well. The buildings they built, their own not-so-little headquarters and their modest little schoolhouse, lie at the west end of the market street, made of hard light, all white and neon blue. It’s not too far from the Enforcers’ block and the greenhouses, the tall building touching the sky, out of place among the patchwork, ramshackled Junker architecture. They’ve designated some land for greenhouses of their own posh make, coming soon. Soon, soon, soon. S’what all the Suits-who-are-not-Suits say in their perfect uniforms and sleek prosthetics.

He sets Hemi down when they reach the pens. The Animal Crew is wrangling an old sow today, her ornery grunts deep and her tusks already generously stained in bright red blood. Hemi cheers and whoops.

“Look Poaka! Look!” The kid chirps, eyes wide and bright and full of wonder as he scampers off to the metal fence. Presses his thin face up and close, fingers clutching, pulling, at the chainlink.

“Right nasty one, she is.” He grunts.

“She’s so  _ fluffy _ !” Hemi cries, ecstatic. He looks at the boar in the pen, half tangled in loose ropes as she’s got her wranglers on the run. Fluffy is, he supposes, one way to describe that particular mutated beast. Not his way, and not the Animal Crew’s way, but it is a way.

Bloody fucking hell, his rugrat better not be a Junk. Mako’s soft and giving heart wouldn’t be able to stand that stress.

He watches Hemi watch the Animal Crew, but his attention shifts quickly enough. He spots a small line of well-dressed anomalies not too far out on the cusps of Junkertown. Vishkar. He minds Hemi, but he’s an Enforcer. They’re never not on duty, never not on watch. They can’t afford not to be, what with the disasters out waiting on their horizons.

 

He watches Vishkar, and stands in awe. All two-some meters and 250 kilos of him stands in awe as Vishkar’s not-quite-Suits move in perfect synchronization, and a wall of blue light becomes real.

 

“Shit mate…” He hears someone from the Animal Crew - a fairly average Bird - swear and nearly fall from his perch atop the tall chain link fence.

“Bloody cunts finally did something!” Another exclamation rises up from the pens, with whistles and cheers and awe.

“‘Bout time,” Comes the snark and the sass and the the scorn. “Finally done with that shit about leader talks and  _ the right path to move forward _ ?” It’s spoken mockingly, the one phrase that every Junker knows now, because it’s the first thing out of every Vishkar shit’s mouth.

He snorts, choosing to stay quiet as the younger, wilder Junkers rant and rave and wax poetics about Vishkar’s wall of light. Even Hemi’s attention is drawn away from the animals, taken by the wall.

Time passes, the sun descends further, and he’s pressed for time.

“C’mon brat.” He grunts, one giant hand resting on Hemi’s head. A commanding weight, but familiar and comforting, “Time to go.”

Hemi whines and protests and pouts.

“I’ve got rounds … and you’ve got work to do.” He reminds the little anklebiter. Hemi’s expression sours even more.  _ Stupid worksheets _ and other curse mutterings are heard, but he lets them slide as he ushers his kid back towards home.

He leaves Hemi where he first found the boy. Pouring over the desk and the mess of papers, doing nothing but frenzied doodling.

He meets Junkdog on his rounds, as he usually does these days. Of all the Enforcers employed by the Dust Council, she’s the only one who’s willing to partner up with him. He doesn’t mind. Junkdog’s got a sharp sense of humor and an appreciation for silence. He appreciates it. Her.

The woman’s dressed in all her weaponry, bandoliers of explosives draped on her shoulders, across her chest. Something’s up. She’s looking particularly smug and vicious, blood on her shirt-scraps and a pack of Indian cigarettes in her hand. Ah. 

“Stole ‘em.” She says, taking a cigarette from the pack. She shoves the rest in a pouch at her side. She twirls the thin stick about her fingers before lighting it with a very nice silver lighter. He assumes that too, was filched off of some poor Vishkar dipstick.

“Wouldn’t expect much else.” He says. They walk together, almost in step, along the maze roads of Junkertown. Enforcers on patrol, nothing to see, best behave.

 

"What you make of Vishkar now?" He asks. She's been mum on the subject for quite some time. Hasn't said a damn word since that Dust Council meeting, months ago.

Junkdog laughs. It’s a harsh, barking sound, more bitter than amused.

“Echa pa’lante, amigo.” She takes a drag of her stolen cigarette and offers it out to him, “Echa pa’lante.”

He doesn’t know a lick of Spanish, but he doesn’t have to. He thinks he gets her meaning. He lifts up his mask, just far enough to reveal his mouth. His lungs are shit and he’ll regret this in time, but for now … Now he takes the offered cigarette and takes a long drag. The smoke is acrid and thick with spices on his tongue. He doesn’t cough, but his eyes water. He wills it down, wills it better.   
  
They share the sunset together, watching Vishkar erect their wall. 


	12. We All Become

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the surviving creator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been a while, hasn't it? Haha, well I had to find the elusive muse, had to get all my words in order, oh and also finish my thesis and temporarily move to a new country. So here I am, homesick as hell, giving this gift to you while my wifi is stable~

The Den is still as solid as it was the day the Rats dug it, a masterwork of engineering, luck, and scavengers’ maintenance. To never have a tunnel collapse under the weight of an entire city is a feat in itself, for the long tunnels of the Rat’s Den twist underneath all of Junkertown. This is a fact that he’s come to know, and he’s willing to bet that he’s the only non-Rat that knows the true extent of the Den. He knows of its hidden entrances. He knows of its high-security emergency stockpiles. He knows of the scrapyards buried deep underground, where the engineering experts wrangle with the remnants of the Old World for the benefit of the New. 

So when he lumbers into the Den, looking for his wayward brat, he knows that something’s afoot. It’s never this messy - what with an excessive amount of medical supplies scattered across the main cavern like an ambulance went and blew up ten feet below ground. The younger Rats ( _ bleeding shit _ there’s less and less of them every day it seems) have scattered and kept to the dark corners and small alcoves. The older Rats don’t look to chuffed.

Ah. That’s it then.

He hears it before he sees her, hissing every curse under the sun. Having known the fire-tempered woman for years now, he’s grown accustomed to Piecerat’s temperamental rages. Something’s got her tied, fixed in a whirlwind rampage.

“Construction’s is near instant, but the plannin’ an’ preparation required’s  _ been difficult _ .” She’s using her special patented mocking voice, nasal and shrill. With the badly mimicked accent, it’s easy to figure out just what’s got her in such a fury. She’s gone and had a chat with Vishkar.

“The fuck they on about?” She screeches, tossing an entire first aid kit against the packed earth wall. Looks like she might have dented the metal. Wall’s fine though. He tries to edge out of her sight before it’s too late, but nothing involving Piece has ever been easy on him. She spots him, her too big, too bright eyes blazing.

“Can you believe that crock ‘o shit?” She’s completely at a loss. For an explanation. For any restraint. For sanity, too, maybe. She lets loose a high, near manic giggle, “Eh, Roadhog? Can you believe that?”

Her eyes burn and she grabs him by the front straps of his leathers. He lets her pull him close, because the alternative would be him standing, unmoving, and her climbing up on him like an actual rat. He gets enough of that nonsense with Hemi. Best not. 

“What planning? What preparations?” Piecerat’s near foaming at the mouth, “What have they done Roadhog, other th’n build a school an’ steal what few children we have left?”

She releases them and tears at her hair, “That fucking bastard looked me in the eye an’ said that Vishkar doesn’t want t’ interfere with our lives.”

She screams and throws something else against the packed earth walls. She lets out a strangled sob, “They’re taking our  _ way of life _ . They’re taking it  _ away _ .”

He starts. Stops. He swears his heart forgets to beat for a moment as her words click into place. She’s right. As insufferable as it is, Piece is always right in the end. Vishkar has planted their roots in already tenuous soil, and like any proper parasite, the natives were being suffocated. Their surveys. Their curfew. Their thinly-veiled civil rehabilitation programs. Their specially-trained police force. They were in arms against the Junker way of life, the way of life that they’d carved out for themselves in the wake of the end of the world. They fought for this way of life. With blood, sweat, and tears.

“You asked for this.” He says. It’s all he can say. It was the Dust Council’s vote, all those months ago. It’s not the kind thing to say. It’s not soft. It’s not comfort. It’s the brutal truth. Roadhog’s way, Roadhog’s words.

But it works. In an instant, all the anger drains out of her, like color from cloth laid out in the sun. She looks older. Frailer. Worn and grey and tired. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks again. Hoarse and soft.

“I know.”   
Her shoulders fall. Curl in. And everything about her sags, as the well of anger and tension in her soul runs dry.

“I did. I asked for this. We all did.” She sighs. Shakes her head, “And it was a mistake.” 

 

“How do we fix this Roadhog?” She asks, and her words are frail. Her voice breaks like shot metal.

 

He sees her look up at him. Her eyes are mirrors, and he sees himself. He sees Roadhog’s mask and Mako’s body.

“She’ll be right.” He grunts. It’s all he can say because he’s no genius. He has no idea how to fix what’s been wrought, to mend the collapsing structural integrity of a thousand people in a ramshackle city. So here’s his shit attempt at comfort and mending words.

And it works, in a way. It brings the anger back. Brings back Piece’s fire.

“You’re a right an’ proper cunt, you are.” She drawls, “Terrible.”

 

A lull in the conversation breathes, and he breathes with it. Silence in the Guild of Rats is something he’s learned to savor. It never lasts, and it’s exceptionally hard to find. Piece is still burning, but she does so quietly. Her anger has reached the lows, burning out into small embers, as she starts gathering up her mess. He stands, watching her, just as silent.

“Alright.” She huffs, setting down an armful of junk none too gently on a carved out shelf, “What’chu want? You never come here without a reason. Out with it.”

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Piecerat’s known him for nine years. Nine years - she knows exactly what he’s looking for.

She rolls her eyes, mouth turned into an annoyed sneer, “You’ll find him in the usual spot, by Piker’s scraps.”

She calls out to him as he leaves down one of the leftward tunnels.

 

“He’s been up t’ something as of late. Probably a good idea to watch him a tad closer, yeah?”

 

He snorts.

 

Hemi is  _ always  _ up to something.

 

He finds Hemi lying on the floor staring at the low dirt ceiling, surrounded by scraps and tools. Whatever he’d been working on likely wasn’t working out too fantastically. He can tell by the pinched look on his brat’s face. The way Hemi has worried his lip bloody, the little claw marks he’s left in the dirt, the grease marks all over his tiny body, and the way he’s starfished on the floor.

“Made a mess of your uniform.” He knows Hemi can hear the scowl in his voice. 

“Good.” Hemi says, voice dull. Mako feels a twinge of softness and sympathy. It seems like Hemi’s current project has most definitely gone the opposite of well.

“They’re expensive.” Roadhog feels the need to remind the boy. This is, after all, the fourth uniform he’s condemned to his scatterbrained creation sprees. They certainly don’t grow on trees and after the first six months, Vishkar made the uniform mandatory for attendance. A filthy, ruined one won’t fly under the noses of those light-based perfectionists. He and Hemi learned that the hard way.

“I’ll pick up a shift or two with Dux or something.” He mumbles, rolling over to faceplant in the dirt. Roadhog grunts. Little shit means to pay for a replacement with only two shifts at the Cross stall? That uniform is far more expensive than that. Needlessly expensive too. After all, isn’t everything Vishkar makes made of light? How expensive can light even be?

After a moment, Hemi speaks again “ ... ‘m sorry Poaka…”

Apologies are always accepted, so long as they’re Hemi’s and Hemi’s alone. He seldom would extend the kindness to any other. Even himself. A Junker worth forgiveness is a rare commodity indeed.

“C’mon,” He huffs. It only takes one arm to scoop Hemi up, but still. His lil’ ‘roo has grown. He remembers when it used to be just a hand. “Let’s get you home. See if those rags can be saved.”

He knows they can’t. They can’t be saved. But damned if he isn’t going to try. Hemi doesn’t protest. If anything, he just hums and curls up in his arms.

And Roadhog walks on.

Hemi’s asleep by the time they’re home. He sets the kid down on his own bed, a small smile crawling onto his face as Hemi stirs just enough to weakly reach out for the warmth that’s left him. He loves that kid, that kid who alone has the power to make Roadhog soft and Mako Rutledge breathe.

He hangs up his hook. Sets down his mask. Sits on the edge of the bed and allows himself his favorite indulgence. Thick fingers run through Hemi’s hair. Filthy as it is, congealed grease, dusty grit, and sweat combined, it’s still the soft. The last soft thing in all of Oz. And like all the other good things that once inhabited Oz, he can’t enjoy it for long. He’s interrupted, quickly and violently, from his happiness and peace.

There’s a knock at the door. Sharp and quick. He growls, eyes narrowed. The list of people with the guts to knock on his door is slim, and none of them sound a lick like that. He hears Hemi make a confused noise, something high and comparable to a keen. Roadhog grabs his hook and puts on his face.

Predictably, it’s a face he’s none too happy to see. The smart, perfect, and geometric white-and-purple uniform of Vishkar, with an equally perfect and geometric face on top.

“What do you want.” Like the rumble of mountains moving, Roadhog’s voice is deep. It commands power and demands respect. He gives credit where credit is due - the Vishkar bastard doesn’t flinch or cower. But the bloke could just be overly confident. He could be under the wrong impression, like he’s  _ safe _ standing at Roadhog’s door or something. That’s a grave mistake, that one right there.

“Greetings. This is the current living quarters of … ah, Hemi Rutledge, correct?” The man glances down at his little blue-light clipboard and it takes everything in his power to keep from socking the bastard in the jaw.

“Who wants to know?” Was Hemi in trouble? Or was this another  _ concerned instructor _ commenting on Hemi’s distance from classmates, or his lack of attention during lessons, or his sneaky habit of sometimes wearing a girl’s uniform because he and Magpie’s girl are thick as thieves and she much prefers pants.

“My name is-” He holds up a hand to interrupt, and reaches for his hook with the other. 

“Don’t want your name.” He says. He most definately hasn’t earned that respect. He shifts his weight so the man hears his power, hears the chain of his hook rattle, “What do you want?”

The Vishkar man clears his throat and continues on, ever so professionally. He sounds like a conman from the Old World’s crime tv, back when he was a fucking kid, sneaking in a few minutes of shows his mother had explicitly banned from the home. Roadhog almost entirely tunes him out - it’s only the last bit that he catches.

“You want what.” He is quick to raise his voice. He is quick to bare teeth and display strength. 

“Your son, despite his academic shortcomings, shows remarkable potential. We at Vishkar believe he could become quite a skilled Architect, given the proper course of training and your blessing.” The man says and his voice is like oil, smooth, poisonous, and valuable. He’s offering a golden ticket. A way out of Oz, a way out into the world beyond it. A way to a better place for Hemi, because though he shines here in the Wastes, Roadhog and Mako both know all too well that the world outside is just  _ better _ . It’s the curse of a parent, thrown in his face - the need to give his child a better life, always and forever.

But it’s not with Vishkar.

Roadhog wisens up fast, and the extended offer sours within seconds. Shrivels and burns as he stares into the man’s dark and empty eyes. He’s seen what Vishkar does. He’s seen what Vishkar doesn’t do. There’s nothing for Hemi if he takes that deal, no matter how sweet it sounds. Vishkar is a hole of empty-to-half-filled promises. There’s no hope there.

“... ‘bout time you cunts recognized his worth.” Mako and Roadhog both speak through him, his love for his son and mile-wide mean streak intertwined, “The answer’s no.”

He slams the door in the man’s face. It wakes Hemi up, who immediately starts cursing and complaining and making a nest-like mess out of his bed. But it was worth it.

  
  


Or so he thought.

  
  


He’s back in Piece’s operating room, a place he never wanted to see ever again. And Hemi’s on the table - a sight that haunts his memories, renewed. There’s something dark and eldritch in his gut, squirming. Threatening to swallow him whole and then - then what? What comes next? Hemi’s quiet on the table. What’s left of his arm is held out, Piecerat running her gloved hands over it. Inspecting. Mourning. Just like he is.

“They cauterized it.” Piece bites out the words, her fingertips ghosting over the stump that had once been a wrist. She sounds heartbroken and angry all at once., “I’d have to open it up to install a port.” 

“What did you do?” It’s Roadhog’s voice, as great and unmoving as mountains, and just as hard and cold. The Mako in him winces, wants to take it back. He shouldn’t be so harsh. 

“It was worth it.” Hemi says again. The kid sounds like a broken record, scratchy and starting and skipping. He refuses to cry, but his lip trembles and his eyes are red-rimmed.

He feels terrible. He feels like a great monster is coiled up within him, devouring him piece by piece, and spreading rot. Roadhog wants to rage. Mako is too withdrawn into his own grief. Once again he’s failed to protect Hemi. This is his fault. He denied Vishkar, and this is their revenge. It has to be. Nothing Hemi could have stolen could have possibly been so valuable as to deserve this. To deserve the holier-than-thou Vishkar to stoop to a Junker’s level.

He should have torn them apart when he had the chance. When the lot of them showed up in a small horde of pristine uniform faces, carrying his little ‘roo by the armpits like he was a piece of garbage they were too good to touch. Just the week prior they wanted Hemi. And now this, so soon after being denied? It can’t be a coincidence. It’s most certainly not a coincidence.

“What could possibly be worth this?” Piecerat says, ever quick and shrill in her sharp concern. Her eyes are searching, diving deep, but Hemi is a closed book. He won’t talk. It’s a secret that is his, and his alone. He certainly hadn’t been carrying anything when he was so ceremoniously delivered to Roadhog’s doorstep, so it’s not like he stole something  _ important _ . He probably just rubbed those Vishkar fucks the wrong way, sneaking into their  _ restricted areas _ like he did and likely nicked a sandwich. All their bloody areas are restricted and all crimes are considered grievous. They’re just pissy because they got out-smarted and tricked by a child. Petty bastards.

“Stubborn brat.” She hisses, grabbing the very same bonesaw that features in many of Mako’s nightmares. In all of his memories of this accursed room, stained with his kid’s blood and sinew. Polished and sharp, used to heal and hurt both. Hemi flinches, but doesn’t look away. He stares on, dead ahead, the bravest little thing he’s ever known.

“You might want to leave, Roadhog. We’ve got some operating to do.” She says curtly, addressing him. Then she turns her full attention towards Hemi, with a very maternal frown in place, “And you. You’re building your own prosthetic. Yakka’s done with your shit. Proper punishment for being dumb.”

“Think maybe I’ve been punished enough, yeah?” Hemi snarks back, but his heart isn’t into it, and he sees the fresh bout of tears welling forth. Hemi can’t hide his real feelings. Not from him. And not from Piecerat either, it seems. Her expression softens and lowers bonesaw. She brushes her hand through Hemi’s messy blond hair, paired with a half-tired smirk.

“You’re a strange little thing, ‘chu know that?” She says, “We’ll see how you do through recovery.”

Her smirk grows wider, “Then we’ll see about giving you a Name.”

At that, he stops. Swears his heart skips a beat. 

“... me?” Hemi’s voice is so bleeding young. Small. So full of disbelief and hope, that it nearly breaks his stuttering heart.

“I think you’ve earned it. And a place among us, if you want it.” Piece says, setting down the bonesaw.

“Really?” Light has returned to Hemi’s eyes, and a smile is pulling at the corner of his lips, “You mean… I’m gonna be a Rat? Like you?”

“If you’ll accept it.”

“O’course I will!” Hemi shouts, nearly jumping off the damn table. His bright face, all sharp smiles and bursting joy, turns to him, “Y’ hear that Poaka? ‘M gonna get me name!”

Hog nods along, a smile growing behind his mask that only Hemi knows, “I did. Good for you.”

Only Hemi really knows the weight of those words, and Hemi will treasure them like gold. Like unbroken parts, the gems of any scrapyard. Roadhog and Mako both - Hemi knows of the division within him. And Hemi knows what it means when they two halves unite.

And Roadhog and Mako both are so   
so

proud.

 

Naming used to be a quiet affair. You earned it quietly and wore it on your heart. But somehow, somewhere along the line, in the passing years, it’d grown. Now the lights are up all throughout the town, and every face is out on the streets. The Named are dressed in the finest scraps they own. Decked out in junk jewelry - bone, glass, feathers and fur - and spikes. They’re carried on the shoulders of their fellows - their ilk, their kin, their  _ family _ \- all throughout the streets of Junkertown, where their name and it’s meaning are announced before all. It’s a celebration of everything they are. It’s a raucous parade of messy Junkers. It’s joy and zeal unbridled. Laughter. Shouting. Singing. 

It’s everything Vishkar hates, if he’s going to be honest. Everything they’ve tried to outlaw, ban, or control - from noise levels to the size of public gatherings to the drunken conduct out in the middle of the streets. Maybe that’s why the whole thing got popular. Spite and defiance run thick in the blood of Junkertown. 

Names -   
Naming didn’t happen too often. (The truth, the reason why - it sickens Mako. It fills him, overflowing with guilt and grief because he still, even now, years after the fact and deed, blames himself.)

But when Naming did happen…

 

“How d’ I look Poaka?” Hemi offers up a shy smile. All of him, Mako and Roadhog, falls to goo. He kneels to adjust the circlet of copper wires and glass beads. Straighten the feathers on the leather harness. Feel the bone-beadwork on the loose-fitted linen pants. Duxrat, a young woman of ten thousand talents, had sewn it for Hemi. Her eyes had been bright as fire when she’d handed over the gift. As if she’d known this day was coming so soon.    
So  _ early _ .

Bleedin’ shit, Hemi is only  _ nine. _ Nine years old and he’s earned his Name. He really did find a gem in the dumpster, a veritable prodigy in the Wastes.

“You look good.” He says, and for once it doesn’t come out too rough, too low, and too callous. It’s the perfect amount of gravel and warmth. It’s the Roadhog and the Mako in him, reconciling. It is all of him, and all of it is despicably soft love for his son. After a moment of thought, a moment immersed in fully regarding the thin thing that he’s seen grow from the tiniest of human-shaped beans, he adds, “Perfect.” 

Hemi beams, like any true ray of Australian sun - with sharp teeth and burning brightness, “Thanks Poaka!”

He fusses over the kid for a bit longer. Makes sure his new prosthetic arm isn’t causing a fuss or rubbing any skin raw. Makes sure his new pants with their bagginess aren’t getting caught in the knee-joint of his peg leg. Hemi can only stand so much fussing before he pushes his hands away.

“ ‘m good Poaka.” He says, nervous and eager, “ ‘m ready.”

And he is. 

He really is.

The second his kid steps out the door, a crowd of noise floods them both. A wave of cheers crashes over Hemi. His Hemi, with his wide sharp-toothed smile and too big, too bright eyes, is left standing in awe. Feelings that he thought Roadhog had killed, that he thought Mako incapable of feeling ever again, choke him.

Battlerrat is at the forefront of the Rat’s parade. He’s the tallest of them, and despite his age, probably the strongest too. He’s the one that will carry Hemi on his shoulders, while Piecerat marches before, calling out the Name for all to hear.

It’s a sight, to be certain. Battlerrat’s wearing dark greasepaint across his face in the Rat Way, a necklace of small rat skulls and human teeth around his neck that only barely masks the strange, nasty scar that marks his chest. Piecerat’s in cream-white linen, the cleanest he’s ever seen her, kookaburra feathers and metal beads woven into her hair, sharp grey paint adorning her face, her bare arms, her bare stomach. He shuffles out of his house just as Hemi is ushered before Piecerat to be fully anointed as one of them. A silver tin is held out, and they’ve chosen - no, no Hemi’s chosen -  _ ashes _ . Hemi’s chosen  _ ashes. _

Ever the stalwart mountain, Roadhog watches on, silently, as the ritual commences and his child is painted with the face of a Rat. He sees nimble fingers, Pieces’ fingers, spread the ashes across his son’s forehead. Across his eyes. Down the bridge of his sharp nose and framing around his sharp cheekbones. Mako feels his eyes burn and his throat grow tight as Piece pulls back. As she slips the tin into someone else’s pocket. As his son opens his eyes, and the grey ash make his brown eyes burn like the setting sun.

As easy as breathing, Battlerrat sweeps Hemi upon his shoulders. Piecerat smiles - a firm, thin smile that is seeped in pride.

“You know your name, don’t ‘chu, Little Rat?” She says, standing tall. Standing proud. He finds himself leaning forward, because he doesn't. Because he must know. Because he needs to know Hemi’s Name from the child’s own mouth.   
Hemi doesn’t speak and he knows it’s because the poor ‘roo is still taking it all in. Just a push. He needs a little push. And it’s his duty as a bloody  _ father  _ to do that - to provide that push, that helping hand. Whenever and forever.

Besides.

It’s only polite.

“What’s your name?” Roadhog’s voice carries over the crowd, deep as thunder.

The truest smile cracks across his anklebiter’s face. All hesitance, all fear is washed away.

“Junkrat!” He shouts, his head held high. Like this, he’s framed by the sun. A halo of gold against his pale hair and freckled skin. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to Roadhog and Mako both, and this is his day. This is his triumph. 

He gives Junkrat a thumbs up as the crowd roars to life.

 

“ ‘Ere’s t’ Junkrat! True Son of th’ Wastes!” They call and shout. Others join in the festivities, tossing scraps of wasteland lace like tickertape. A few of the younger scoundrels have small-time fireworks, harmless cherries and sparklers of all colors, kept safe despite Vishkar’s iron laws against them. They’re held high. They’re tossed up. Their colors illuminate the faces of their people. 

“Junkrat! Survivor’s Creation! Surviving Creator!!” The Rats chorus, and he hears the Dogs and the Vipers. The Spiders, the Birds, the Cats, and the Lizards. People are calling out, asking for Hemi’s Name and it’s given. It’s given with so much pride. Gods above and below, alive and dead, his little rat wears his name with such  _ pride _ .

“Junkrat! First o’ ‘is name!” They shout.

“Enduring! Unyielding!” They cry.   
“Innovator! Maker!” The words have weight. The Name had  _ meaning _ . The Vishkar wankers watch on from the sidelines with their faces lined in heavy disapproval, and all the meaning is completely lost to them. This ain’t their order. This ain’t their scene. This is something their corporate coldness could never understand. They watch but their eyes don’t see. Maybe, at one point, they could have understood - back at their humble start. When they were still fresh from their apocalypse, with the blood and mud still on their faces as they clawed their way up through the dirt.

“Survivor!” The Junkers shout their welcome with honest lungs, “Creator!”

  
_ Junkrat _ . He smiles beneath his mask.   
  
It suits him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now you guys know the meaning of the name _Junkrat_  
>  Does it hurt?
> 
> Also, idle curiosity here: what's your headcanon appearances for Piecerat, Junkdog, and Duxrat?


End file.
